Sixteen
Someone fetched Birdie to town, so while I sat in an empty restaurant, clinging to a cup of tea, the marshal spoke with her at length.
I'm not sure why it took so long to explain such a simple, terrible act. Perhaps it always did; when Thomas died, time passed in blinks and starts. It was both endless and instant, and in the beginning, all of it blessedly numb. Mr. Larsen had been a stranger to me, and I think, my victim—so the seconds passed cruelly, each one a brand on my skin.
"Zora," Birdie said, even before she got through the door. She rushed over, wrapping me in tender arms. She smelled of brown sugar and molasses; my addled mind guessed that she'd fixed baked beans for supper.
Looking up at her, I said, "I know we need the money, but I don't think I can do this again."
Birdie burst into tears, and like me, she was hardly lovely at it. Red blotches marred her skin; her tears didn't take delicate, rivulet paths down her cheeks, they spilled out, soaking her—soaking me.
Furiously, she swiped at her face, then caught mine between her hands. "To hell with the cow."
I slumped, pressing my brow to her shoulder. Soaking up her familiar warmth, I rested there, my anxiety dissolving by the moment. Her fingers played across my hair, carding the curls as she petted me. Without thought, I murmured, "You remind me of Mama."
"Good God, don't tell me that." She shook me, then turned away to wipe her face. And just that quick, she put herself back together and pulled me to my feet. "Come on, duck. Lou's sleeping in the Herringtons' wagon. I expect the mister would like to get home before midnight."
I followed her outside, drinking in the cool night air. Leaving my bonnet to hang down my back, I matched Birdie's efficient pace as we headed for the general, taking in the town after sunset.
Dark transformed West Glory. The buildings' false fronts loomed above, black as gargoyles. The only light came from the restaurant behind me and the saloon in front of me.
I saw Theo inside, an elbow on the bar, propping himself up while he talked to the marshal. I wondered if he was all right. He managed a weary smile but ordered another drink.
It was no wild scene, just dusty men hunched over glasses and cards. Perhaps it was too early for bar fights or soiled doves; more likely, they'd never come. The western adventure the newspapers back east had promised was gossamer, made of the same ephemeral stuff as fairy tales.
West Glory was a small town trying to get by in a hard land, nothing more.
***
Two days after, I took a bucket to pick incidental berries and set off for the creek. Birdie had treated me like porcelain all morning and didn't argue when I told her I was going for a walk.
Heat trailed in wavering rivers, reflecting sky and grass, twisting them together like a kaleidoscope. There was a particular thinness to the air—it felt as though someone had opened a great oven and we had no choice but to stand beside it.
It burned the sound and life from the prairie, burrowing animals clever enough to find some relief beneath the earth, and flying creatures resting in their nests and bowers. The back of my neck prickled, with sweat and with the eeriness of a land so still and silent.
The creek offered some relief. The water whispered on the rocks, minnows flashing like silver bangles in the shallows. I sat in the reeds and unlaced my boots, leaving them behind so I could wade. Pulling my combination over my knees, I lifted my skirts high to keep both dry as I splashed along.
Crayfish zipped away from me in their backwards way, and they were lucky they were no bigger than my pinkie. Mama had a particularly good recipe for New Orleans gumbo, and I wasn't above trying to recreate it from memory.
Rocks pressed into my bare arches, the water rising above my ankles as I sloshed along. The sun had warmed the water, but the water cooled me nevertheless. And it soothed me, swirling against my skin; it whispered and elevated me, scrubbing away all the dark and the turmoil of late.
I felt it everywhere like a caress. Then, beneath that, a faint tremor. I turned, knowing I'd see Emerson between the cattails, and there he was.
"Sorry I'm late," he said.
"You can always catch up," I told him.
But instead of wading in with me, he followed me along the shore, both feet firmly on his earth. He was gold as the prairie, his hair shining and his skin baked a deep bronze—and beautiful in his imperfections.
He'd broken his nose once; I was sure of it. His lips were thin and teeth flat beneath them. He was not a god walking, no fae king slipped out of Avalon, which Theo very well could have been. He was rough and plainspoken, and I wanted him to be mine.
"My philosophy," he said suddenly, "is, leave me to mine, and I'll leave you to yours."
Gathering my skirts in one hand, I reached out to catch his with the other. Our fingers threaded together knowingly, clasping in just the right way. Surely, he could feel my racing pulse; the gentle way he squeezed my hand is what set it to running. "You've got but the one?"
He nodded. "There was no living with Pa after Ma died. I was about grown, and I looked like her. I don't know why that set him off, but it did. So I packed up my things-—I figured, there's free land to be had in the Territories. I'll go get mine."
"And here you are," I said.
"Except it's not that neat, Zo." His thumb rasped against mine as he ordered his thoughts. The pet name was new, but it slipped out so easily—I wondered, is that what he called me in his mind? Had he rolled this conversation over until it was smooth and perfect in his thoughts?
Finally, he said, "Look, the rules were real simple. You had to be eighteen. You had to run to claim your plot when the gun went off, and you had to improve the land or they wouldn't give you the deed."
"All right." I smiled at him, curious, for his expression wasn't a victorious one, and I didn't understand why. Surely he wasn't worried that his improvements weren't enough to earn his deed. "So you lined up and—"
Emerson stopped. He turned our joined hands over and kissed the inside of my wrist. It was quick, laced with a hint of desperation. Then, whatever possessed him to do it slipped away, and he seemed very himself again: blunt and matter-of-fact. "I bought a birth certificate in Philadelphia so they wouldn't turn me away."
Surprised, I wasn't sure what to say. "How old are you?"
"Seventeen now," he replied. He flattened his lips, as if the number annoyed him. "But that's the least of it. I walked out the night before, just to get a look, and I realized some of those lots would never grow. What was I gonna do if I got one of the dead ones?"
The day darkened around me. I knew exactly what some men would do, given a vast, lifeless expanse. "Go on."
"I had my flag and my stake, and I planted them the night before. I cheated, straight up, and they've got a word for that out here: sooner. That's why your aunt looks at me the way she does. Why they'd just as soon spit on me in West Glory." He pursed his lips. "All I wanted was a piece of land and a life that was my own.
"I wasn't out here three weeks before the Arapaho came through. All I had then was a tent and a fire, but I saw them put up their village in a night. A few weeks later, they brought it down again. Up and disappeared without leaving a mark. They knew where the water was, where the game was. They knew this land. And you know how?"
I shook my head. There was no need to say anything; I knew he'd answer his own question.
"Because it was theirs first. I thought I could live with that, but your aunt's right—I stole my land. It's just, she thinks I stole it from the government."
"Emerson—"
"Leave me to mine," he said sharply, "and I'll leave you to yours. I don't know that I'm staying here, Zo. But I don't know where the hell I'd go, either."
Frozen, I struggled to reply. I wanted to argue at first, because how could the government give him something it didn't own? Or wasn't it good enough to leave the Indians in peace to come and go and camp his land if they wanted?
But I held my tongue as realizatio
n set in.
For me, one day the Indian Territories became Oklahoma Territory, and not once had I wondered at it. It was just the way it was—I'd accepted it the same way I had accepted Buffalo Bill's stories as the truth.
"So that's my philosophy," Emerson said. He let his hand slip from mine and dropped his hat on his head. "And if you think you can live with that, come back tomorrow."
"Emerson! Em! Wait!" I reached for him, but he slipped away without a backward glance.
I had asked for this exactly—I had demanded it. As I gathered my shoes and my pail, I wondered if I would have been happier throwing myself into his arms instead of learning him before I leapt. Impetuous kisses were the sweetest kind, or so poets told me—mad love was the truest sort. Was it true?
A dry, hot wind scored my face as I trudged home; the birds remained silent, the sky a voiceless blue.
I had no answer at all.
***
That evening, I sat by the outside fire, boiling water for baths. If I'd had something to read, there would have been light enough. But instead, I had slipped my old dance card from its hiding place. It bore its age poorly.
Stained with mud and bent from trampling, the card had warped and no longer closed flat. The once-gleaming gold ribbon was frayed and pale, the pencil long gone. I opened the card, as I had so many times, and trailed my fingers along the worn pages. Most of the lines were blank; Thomas' handwriting haunted the rest.
Birdie came around the house, shooing Louella out of her way with a gentle nudge. Thrilled to be stripped to her combination, Louella ran to the edge of the yard, turning like a top. It didn't occur to her to be afraid of what might lurk in the dark; she cared nothing for propriety. She was unreservedly happy, spinning herself sick for no reason but she could do it.
Birdie leaned over the pot, dipping fingers in to check the temperature. She spared me a glance. "You've been quiet."
Waving the dance card at her, I said, "This time last year, I thought I knew everything."
"I've got news for you," Birdie said with a wry smile. "Every year, you know less and less. Bet you a new penny that's why old folks rock and smile all day long."
"I don't have a new penny."
"An old one will do." Birdie took the dance card, looking it over. "I'll give you one for your thoughts."
Steeling myself with a fortifying breath, I said, "I'm not going to marry Theo de la Croix. He didn't ask, and he's not going to. We're ... friends."
There was no chill or malice to it when Birdie said, "And you're hardheaded enough to mean that."
I nodded, gazing past the fire to watch Louella play. Wobbly from her game, she dropped to the ground, tucking her little arms behind her head. She looked so serious, and for the briefest of moments, I could imagine her much older—her blond hair tamed in a chignon, her skirts to the floor. Maybe she'd lie in this same grass, under these same stars, pondering beaux and mysteries alike.
But I pushed those thoughts aside; she had time enough to grow up. It would come on fast, before she knew it—she needed to enjoy the night and the sky and running wild in her underclothes while she could.
Pulling myself back from that meditation, I looked to Birdie again. "What if you were right—"
"Take that as a given," Birdie said, teasing. Then she raised her brows expectantly, letting me finish my thought in peace.
I cleared my throat. "What if I did run away? The Territories, coming west—it's not what I expected. At all. I love you and Louella, and it's not the hard work. I don't mind hard work."
Birdie smoothed her thumb along the edge of my dance card, then fanned her face with it. "Out with it."
"I don't want to abandon you."
Handing me the card, Birdie stood abruptly. At first, I thought she might be angry; she turned away and tipped her head back, the way Mama sometimes did when she was trying not to give someone a tongue-lashing she thought they deserved. But Birdie's shoulders shook, and she was silent until she faced me again, her pink lips bitten.
"Zora," she said. She enunciated carefully, as if the words might get away from her. "Pauline asked me to keep you until you came to your senses, and Lord knows, nobody tells my sister no. You've got to understand, ducky. I don't need you to get by."
I exhaled a soft "Oh."
"You'd better take that the way I mean it, too." She leaned down, pressing her head to mine. Her voice was soft, a breath on my cheek. "I love you, and I'll keep you as long as you want to stay. But I'm not your anchor. Don't go making me one."
Reaching back, I tangled my fingers in her hair. I shifted my weight to lean into her, and she did the same, pressing us close and fond. I felt like a selfish thing, a foolish thing, believing that I alone kept and preserved her. Being told otherwise hurt, but in the right way—the way my head ached when I'd learned something new.
After a while, I murmured, "Thank you, Birdie."
"You're welcome." She made a kissing sound, then peeled away from me easily. Gesturing toward the pot, she said, "Now, carry that inside. I'll go wrangle Lou."
That was my Aunt Birdie—all sentiment until she wasn't. I smiled a little, just to myself, and did as I was told.
Seventeen
I had my escape to the creek planned—and then it was thwarted.
Mrs. Rubert had shown me how to make cattail relish at the barn raising. It took little more than green tomatoes, of which we had an abundance, and vinegar and sugar, which were cheap. Just at Louella's nap, I gathered the pail and fixed my mouth to promise a pound of cattail bulbs for supper.
Certainly, I could have told Birdie where I intended to go, whom I intended to meet, but I chose, instead, to keep my own counsel. The recent tragedy was reason enough to keep my head low and to go along, but in truth, it was my own contemplative state that kept me from speaking.
I hadn't lied. I wanted to touch Emerson Birch. I wanted to kiss him and feel his hands on my face. Teasing him came easily, and his barbs crackled and snapped. He was handsome, and talented-—his gift with a fiddle chilled and delighted me both.
He was earth without water. I was water without earth.
But was that enough to hitch myself to him, to accompany him, when he himself couldn't say where he might go? No, the question was more elemental than that: was I running to him or away from my mistakes?
Until I knew, until I was sure, I wasn't ready to fight Birdie about it. I wanted to choose my battles, and I had no strategy to win this one yet. It would wait until I could.
"Birdie," I called, coming out of the garden with the pail dangling from my hand, "I'm going to—"
"Somebody's coming," Birdie said. A deep furrow pressed into her brow, and she crossed her arms tight over her chest. "Horseback, no wagon."
My chest tightened. Anyone we'd want to see would no doubt come hitched to a phaeton or a buckboard. Putting the bucket down, I went to stand beside her, watching as distant plumes of dust took the shape of the marshal.
Before he'd entirely stopped, Birdie marched toward him. She had a dragon's smile on—it could be mistaken for pleasant, if you didn't know the woman wearing it. "You're out a long ways, Dennis. Is something the matter?"
The marshal circled his horse, rubbing her neck to calm her. He made no move to dismount, so I thought he couldn't possibly have any news of dire import. He tipped his hat to Birdie, then to me, before saying, "Well, about that notice you put up in town."
"I'm sorry you came all this way," Birdie said. "In light of Mr. Larsen's passing, my niece and I have decided it's best if we let God sort out the water situation here in O County."
Shifting the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other, the marshal sighed. "I wish it was that easy, Birdie. Jim Polley made a complaint this morning."
Stilling, I measured my breath. "Did he, sir? About what?"
The marshal frowned. "He says you put on some song and dance about finding a spring in the middle of his fields when there's not a drop to be had. Says he's been digging
two days straight now and got nothing but a mule's grave to show for it."
"He should read our notice again," Birdie said. She caught my arm and pulled me close, petting me like some precious angel. "It's two dollars for the appointment. We never promised anybody water."
"Jim says she cheated him out of three." The marshal looked to me for some refutation.
Instead, I lifted my chin. "He wanted to know how he could drain the Gibsons' spring onto his land. I didn't feel moral or ethical helping him do that, so I pointed out another source I thought he could rightfully tap. I offer my sincerest apologies if he found nothing there. Was it wrong of me to accept a tip for services rendered?"
The marshal rolled his toothpick again and said, "Probably not, Miss Stewart. But it would go a long way to keeping the peace if you'd give it back."
At that, Birdie interjected. "Why doesn't he want to keep the peace with us? This little girl drove three hours from home to call on them, and she did just what she said she would."
"Yes, ma'am, I know." The marshal scrubbed his face with his hand. "I'm not saying he's right. I'm just saying calm between neighbors is best for everybody."
At that, I snapped. I hadn't earned the dollar, not honestly, and I think if the marshal had cajoled us some other way, I might have argued Birdie down and returned it. But I was tired of holding my tongue to keep the peace.
"Well, how about this, Marshal," I said briskly. "You arrest Royal Wakes for robbing my coach, and I'll give Jim Polley his tip back with interest. Unless you think Royal's already spent what he stole from my luggage."
A dark look crossed the marshal's face. "That's a serious accusation you're making, Miss Stewart."
"Oh, shut your rag box, Dennis." It was Birdie's turn to roll her eyes. "We all know what the Wakes boys get up to. Let's be plain here: Are you demanding a refund?"
The marshal pursed his lips, then said, "I don't believe so. Jim paid for her to turn up, and she did."
Turning her bright eyes on me, Birdie asked, "Are you filing a complaint against Royal Wakes?"
The Springsweet Page 15
