“Oh Malcolm, I couldn’t possibly—”
But the Carters were up and rooting in the wagon before I’d finished my protest. I looked at Sawyer and found him smiling. He lifted our joined hands and kissed mine, saying, “I knew their mama well, and she would be overjoyed to lend you her dress.”
My eyes filled with tears. Sawyer said softly, “She would, don’t spend one second thinking otherwise.”
Behind us, Malcolm crowed in triumph, “Here it is!”
Boyd called, “Lorie-girl, get over here on the far side of the wagon! Sawyer ain’t allowed to see this ’til it’s on you.”
Clairee Carter’s wedding dress was sewn from ivory silk. Watered silk, with a fitted waist and draped sleeves that flowed delicately to the elbow. Seed pearls glistened on the neckline. Neither passing decades nor having been stored in a cedar trunk had diminished its delicate beauty. Boyd held it aloft in the morning sun and I clasped both hands beneath my chin.
“It’s exquisite,” I whispered, reaching to touch the material. The sun gleamed over the pearls, throwing fire. My eyes were likewise dazzled at this gift.
Exquisite. Synonyms include: elegant, impeccable, gorgeous, striking.
“You look about of a size with Mama,” Boyd said. “I do believe that this’ll fit you right nice.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” I said, tears blurring the sight of the silk.
Boyd said, “There wasn’t much my sweet mama loved more’n a wedding, an’ fancies. How I wish she could be here to get you ready, Mama and Ellen Davis, both. You’ll just have to trust me an’ the boy, Jesus help us.”
After breakfast, at Boyd and Malcolm’s insistence, Sawyer was not allowed to set eyes upon me until what Malcolm referred to as ‘the service.’
“Don’t worry, we’ll get your betrothed cleaned up right nice,” Boyd assured me.
“You gotta wash your hair, Lorie-Lorie,” Malcolm ordered, insistent as any lady’s maid. “I feel that oughta be the first thing, ain’t that right?”
In my shift, I ducked, shivering, into the river as the sun rose and sparkled over the water in ever-shifting golden coins; we had indeed happened upon a lovely spot to camp, near a small, rocky beach alongside the indigo rush of the Iowa. The shallows, where I bathed, were blessedly warmer than the deeper center of the waterway, in which Malcolm, who had stripped to his skin, swam delightedly while I soaked; when my fingers skimmed over the flesh between my legs, hidden beneath the water, I let my fingertips linger a heartbeat longer, closing my eyes and recalling every blessed second of last night. Though his hands and mouth left no part of me untouched, Sawyer had refrained from fully joining our bodies—that would be for tonight. And a giddy anticipation rendered me weak-kneed; I ducked beneath the surface, pressing both hands to the fluttering joy centered in my stomach.
A half-hour later I was scrubbed within an inch of my life, dressed in a dry shift while Malcolm proceeded to brush out my hair; I sat on the bedding in the tent I shared with Sawyer, knees drawn up and chin resting upon them, while Malcolm knelt behind me.
“I am ever so happy that you twos are hitchin’ up,” Malcolm said, smoothing the fingers of one hand within my loose hair; his touch was so gentle, almost worshipful, his familiar voice with a note of winsomeness not normally present. “When we rode away from you an’ Gus, I was scared, I tell you. Sawyer couldn’t eat, an’ hardly spoke. At night he curled over an’ wept like his world was ending. It was right terrible.”
I had known this, and still Malcolm’s words tore at my heart. I whispered, “Thank you for taking care of him.”
Malcolm said guilelessly, “I wish I could marry you, Lorie-Lorie, I ain’t gonna lie, but I can’t imagine you or Sawyer without the other, not no more.”
“You are such a dear heart,” I told the boy, turning to look at him as he frowned with the concentration of working gingerly through a tangle; he knew to start at the bottom, combing the ends before the roots. The scratch on his face appeared raw and sore. I said, “Someday you will make a fine and loving husband.”
Malcolm rested one hand flat against my skull, the brush poised in his other. I studied his brown eyes with their long lashes, the dusting of freckles over his nose and cheekbones. He held very still and his gaze was fixed distantly, somewhere other than this moment.
“What is it?” I asked quietly.
He blinked and refocused upon the here and now, meeting my eyes and imploring, “Will I ever meet a girl I love as Sawyer loves you?”
“Oh, Malcolm,” I whispered at this heartfelt question. “For certain you will meet a girl you love with all of your heart. You’re so young yet. Wait until you’ve lived a little longer.”
He resumed stroking the brush along my hair. “I do hope so. I aim to have me a passel of young’uns an’ make sure that there are more Carters than anyone ever did see.”
“Then you will,” I promised, and his face lit with a smile, eradicating the winsome yearning present just moments ago.
“Me an’ Boyd got lots more planned for you, but it’s a secret,” Malcolm informed with a wink, reminiscent of his elder brother, and somehow, I was certain, their father. He said, “You’s a bride today an’ it’s your wedding, even if we ain’t got no cake.”
“I am a bride,” I marveled softly, biting back a smile at Malcolm’s lamentation regarding the decided lack of victuals available here on the prairie. My mama would have swooned, probably fainted outright, at the notion of such an ill-prepared and hasty service, requiring smelling salts to revive her sensibilities. But material things mattered not a whit to me; I was content beyond reasoning, I who had spent years accepting that I would never marry, that I would die alone and likely of unnatural causes. I looked at my ring, bringing it to my lips. I begged Malcolm, “Tell me of the surprises. What have you done with Sawyer?”
But the boy only grinned like an imp.
“You’ll see, Lorie-Lorie,” was all he would say.
* * *
I emerged from the tent in the late afternoon; I had slept for a long time, waking on my side to behold a canvas wall glowing with soft afternoon light, and rested my cheek to Sawyer’s pillow. I thought of him telling me about his paternal grandparents, about Sawyer and Alice Davis, who handfasted long ago, against the wishes of her family in their homeland of England, before bravely journeying to a new continent to begin their lives together. I thought of my own parents, William and Felicity Blake; under other circumstances, my daddy would be walking with me on his arm to place my hand within Sawyer’s. Mama would arrange my dress, tucking and tidying to her satisfaction, before standing back to admire me, her beloved only daughter. Although I was not one for praying, I brought my folded hands to my lips and closed my eyes. I saw them each in my memory, and that was enough.
Mama, Daddy. Dalton, Jesse. I will never forget you, not so long as I live. I hope you are able to see that I am at last happy, that I am marrying the man I love.
I whispered, “Amen.”
“Lorie, come eat!” Boyd called from outside. “Just a bit longer now,” he said as I joined him, and then he immediately groused, “This is one sorry wedding feast. Dammit, if the two of you woulda give me some warning.” But as I sat and accepted a plate of food, his teasing tone changed markedly. He fixed his dark eyes upon me, as somber as Malcolm had been earlier, when brushing my hair. Boyd said softly, “I was scairt, Lorie, when he thought he’d lost you. I can’t tell you. I’ve never seen him suffer so.”
I whispered, “Thank you for being there with him, Boyd, when I could not.”
“Lorie-girl, I love him, too. Him an’ me are brothers to each other. He knows my life an’ I know his, an’ to see him so happy does my heart a good turn, I tell you.”
“May I see him soon?” I begged.
Boyd said, “Soon enough, little bride. Come, eat an’ we’ll get you into your dress.”
Within my tent, I shed my garments and slipped into Clairee’s gown; it was wrinkled, as there was
no helping that, but its silken length fell softly over my skin. I couldn’t manage the delicate fastenings that laced closed the back of the gown; Malcolm had returned, I heard him whispering with Boyd, and I called, “May I have a bit of help?”
“C’mon out,” Boyd said.
I ducked from the entrance, clasping the dress together behind my back, to observe that Malcolm was carrying an armload of wildflowers so large it nearly obscured his face.
“Me an’ Sawyer spent all afternoon picking these for you,” he announced.
Boyd moved behind me and without compunction began hooking the small loops over each subsequent pearl button. His face near the back of my neck as he bent close to work, he muttered, “I gotta admit that I’m a bit more familiar with this process in reverse.”
“You ain’t gotta talk like that. It’s Lorie’s wedding day,” Malcolm scolded, depositing the flowers gently near my feet. He said, “Here, let’s get some a-these in your hair.”
At last Boyd successfully secured me into Clairee’s lovely gown and then I choked on a restrained laugh as Malcolm observed, concerned, “It’s a bit tight, just there.” Adding to the unconscious hilarity of this statement, he poked a finger in the direction of my breasts, as though I did not take his meaning.
Boyd snorted in surprised exasperation, though he could not help but laugh, his eyes almost inadvertently detouring to briefly regard the material that did fit a touch too snugly across my front side. Boyd winked at me and said, “I doubt that Sawyer will complain.”
He and Malcolm arranged flowers next, and I marveled as I watched them at close range, the Carter brothers with their dark eyes serious and contemplative as they threaded more than a dozen blossoms into my hair. I was at once overcome with love for them and with the urge to giggle as they worked over me, as attentive to detail as any two handmaidens. Malcolm gathered up the rest of the flowers, which smelled of the green tang of freshly-plucked stems.
He said, “This here is your bouquet, an’ Sawyer done give me this for you.”
Malcolm passed the flowers to my waiting hands and reached into his trouser pocket, withdrawing Sawyer’s mother’s lace handkerchief.
He said, “This here is to bind your wrist to Sawyer’s, Lorie-Lorie. You’re to tuck it against your heart, Sawyer told me. I’ll be back directly!”
So saying, he darted away, fleet-footed. I held Ellen’s handkerchief to my lips before tucking it, as instructed, near my heart.
Boyd stepped back and surveyed me with lips pursed. He pronounced, “You are the prettiest bride I ever seen, savin’ the woman that I shall wed someday, God an’ good fortune willing.”
“Oh, Boyd,” I said, catching him into a hug, my bouquet brushing his ear with petals. “Thank you, for everything.”
He hugged me close and kissed my temple, then drew away to regard me again, with a critical eye, straightening a flower in my hair. Clairee’s dress was snug against my hips and breasts, which contributed to my increasing breathlessness, though otherwise fit well. The silken sleeves left my arms bared from elbow to wrist, the neckline dipping gracefully beneath my collarbones. My hair, decorated with blossoms, hung loose.
“Let me grab my fiddle,” Boyd said. “An’ then I will be pleased as a daddy to escort you to your betrothed.”
I saw Malcolm leading Whistler. The long evening sunbeams struck the two of them, edging them each with a halo of golden radiance; my throat ached at the beauty of it.
“Sawyer’s a-waiting for us!” the boy called, anticipation ripe in his tone. He chirped, “What do you think of Whistler-girl, huh, Lorie-Lorie? Don’t she look pretty, too?”
He had woven flowers into her mane and tucked them in her bridle.
“Thank you, sweet boy, for all of this,” I whispered, hugging him tightly. “I couldn’t possibly love you more.”
Malcolm blushed and twinkled. He said gruffly, “I love you, too.” He added, with a tone of quite flattering awe, “Lordy, you’s a sight. I can’t wait ’til Sawyer sees you, I tell you.”
“Whistler,” I murmured to her, and she nickered in gentle acknowledgment. I kissed her nose and whispered, “You look so pretty.”
“Now let’s get you atop this here horse,” Boyd said. He was dressed in his black trousers and had combed back his hair, carrying his bow and his fiddle, though he set it gently to the ground to assist me upon Whistler’s unsaddled back; there, I sat as though using a side-saddle, both legs on the left, gently clasping her mane in one hand and my flowers in the other. Boyd, fussy as any mother-in-law, arranged the silk train to his liking over Whistler’s hide. He said, “Mind them bare feet now.”
“I will,” I whispered, breathless and fluttering as Malcolm took Whistler’s reins and Boyd retrieved his fiddle. They both looked up at me, their dark eyes catching the sunset light.
Malcolm said, “C’mon, girl,” to Whistler.
The prairie was splendid under the low-lying beams of evening sun. I let my senses imbibe every last detail, the slant of the saffron light, the violet tint of the clouds on the western horizon, the purple-hued rising moon, adorned with a glinting star just near its left curve. The air was still, Whistler’s feet making muted cupping sounds against the earth as she walked. As Boyd began to play, tears spilled from my cheeks onto Clairee’s dress. I was almost unbearably happy, but I had promised that I would not fear it. I lifted my eyes to the sweep of sky and thought again of my long-lost family, imagining what they would be feeling just now, before I looked back to Earth and smiled at the sight of Malcolm’s shaggy hair. And then just ahead I saw Sawyer, waiting for us.
Everything within me flowed towards him as I beheld his resplendent expression. Upon his face I saw the intensity of his love and the incredible strength of his spirit, the overwhelming awe of this moment and the near inability to bear all of these gifts at once. The hawk eyes I knew so well flashed into mine, sparking with tears as Whistler and I drew near. He was clad in black trousers and his white muslin shirt. I saw that someone, surely Malcolm, had stuck a flower into the second-to-top buttonhole.
Malcolm halted and bowed formally to Sawyer, though we did not remove our eyes from one another. Boyd kept playing as Sawyer stepped to Whistler’s side and rested a hand on her hide, placing his other upon my thigh, warm and strong against the silk of the dress, my blood leaping at the touch. He blinked, the sun catching his eyes and refracting from his lashes. At last he said softly, “Lorie, look at you. I could never explain in words what this moment means to me.” His voice was husky with emotion as he lifted me from her back, his hands about my waist, mine upon his shoulders.
Boyd, with a showman’s timing, let a last note waver and fade, and Malcolm was waiting to take the bouquet of flowers, which he set carefully on the ground, a courteous attendant.
“Come,” Sawyer said, his eyes intense upon me. He took my hands in his and kissed them, one after the other, before leading me a few feet away from Whistler.
Malcolm, clearly having rehearsed his part, stepped forward and addressed me, intoning ceremoniously, “Have you the cloth for binding?”
I nodded, and with utmost care, reached and drew the handkerchief from the dress, warm from being cradled to my skin. Malcolm asked, “Who shall bind this man and this woman?”
Boyd said, “I shall,” and took the cloth from me with great dignity.
Sawyer gathered my left hand decisively into his right, threading his fingers amid mine and lifting our joined hands to his heart. Boyd tied the lace kerchief about our wrists, tightly linking us. The sun dipped below the horizon; its last rays created a spectacular light show, had we been willing to look away from one another and into that direction. Boyd stepped back and joined Malcolm, who sat quietly upon the ground.
His eyes bearing into mine and with a lilt of incantation in his deep voice, Sawyer said, “Lorissa Anne Blake, under this sky on this night, I take you to be my wife. I love you with my heart and soul, and I will protect you, and cherish you, until my last bre
ath. You are mine, and I am yours. By this handfast, from this moment forth, we shall remain bound for all time.”
I had been unsure about the exact proceedings, but I trusted Sawyer’s knowledge. His solemn words filled my heart and as he paused I began, repeating the vows as he had spoken them, “Sawyer James Davis, under this sky on this night, I take you to be my husband.” I tightened my fingers even more securely around his. “I love you more than my own life, and I will care for you, and cherish you, until I die.” Tears brimmed as I whispered, “I am yours, with my whole heart, and you are mine. From this moment forth, and by this handfast, we shall remain bound for all time.”
The air around our bodies seemed to swirl and sigh, settling upon us as our vows drifted up and into the night, into the endless sky, the unchanging heavens that would exist long after both of us. And somewhere within it, our words would survive, too.
Sawyer drew me instantly close. I curled into his embrace, momentarily forgetting our audience of two, and kissed him as though this was perhaps our last night upon an earthly realm. Though I wasn’t fatalistic enough to think it truly was, there was a dark and aching part of my soul that would always fear the dawn and what it might bring, how it might work to separate me from those I loved.
Our wrists remained bound, hampering my ability to get my arms around him the way I desired, and he drew back enough to slip free the binding, keeping the knot intact. He scooped me up and into his arms, holding me close to his heart as he reclaimed my mouth; all about us, the light leached from the prairie and twilight sprang to dusky life.
Boyd and Malcolm were applauding with vigor.
“I now pronounce you man an’ wife!” Malcolm whooped. “I remember Reverend Wheeler sayin’ that!”
Sawyer laughed at these exuberant words, against my lips as we were still kissing, and Boyd added, “To Mr. and Mrs. Davis!”
Sawyer whispered, “My wife.”
“My husband,” I whispered in return, twining my fingers into his silken hair.
Soul of a Crow Page 13
