“I only expect your patience when I deserve it,” he said tenderly, kissing my eyes, one after the other, and then my chin, which lifted at once, instinctively seeking his kiss upon my mouth. His lips a mere breath from mine, he cupped one hand between my legs and whispered, “You have been most patient with me, wife. But just now there are other matters I wish to discuss. Such as how you are also silken-soft. Oh holy God, Lorie, you feel good…”
“I know it is unseemly to ask, just now,” I said, breathless with tears, and shivering joy, as he caressed inside me with slow and rhythmic strokes. I was still half in disbelief that he was awake, and coherent. I clarified, “But I would like very much for you to kiss me…here…and here…” and I indicated by tracing my fingertips between my breasts, flushing a little. How brazen I had become.
A genuine grin overtook his face.
“Nothing would make me happier. Come here to me, darlin’,” he murmured, stroking in earnest as I moaned, and lowered his mouth.
* * *
“I dreamed that there were stones over your eyes,” I admitted later when we lay in darkness, the lantern extinguished for the night, bracing against the memory of the nightmare—the same night that Zeb had fired his rifle into the wagon, and Boyd and Malcolm’s tent. I shuddered. “A crow showed me your body, and spoke to me.”
After a moment of silence, in which I could sense his thoughts flowing backward through time, Sawyer murmured, “That was my old nightmare. I dreamed so often of the crow during the War. After many a battle it came to me as I lay sleeping, thinking to rob me of any peace I had salvaged in the aftermath. Many times I dreamed of stones covering my eyes, blocking my sight. You must have sensed it.”
“I believe it is gone now, the shadow past,” I whispered truthfully.
Sawyer did not at first respond; at last he murmured, “I do not believe it can ever fully be gone, but perhaps it will not darken our path again. I pray we have given it enough.”
But even as I nodded agreement, I found myself wondering what monstrous toll—exacted throughout time in the fires of war and death, greed and savage destruction—would ever be enough to satisfy such a creature.
- 33 -
Son, you won’t be fit for travel for a time an’ you must accept this,” I heard Tilson tell my husband. Tilson was endlessly patient, and spoke with abundant practicality, but even through the closed door I could sense that this information was not what Sawyer wanted to hear, or heed. Boyd was also in the room with them, having recently returned from Iowa City bearing a new letter from Jacob.
“We cannot delay any longer than the end of August. July is gone as it is,” Sawyer said, and his deep voice was respectful, yet rife with the desire for Tilson to understand.
“We got a month of travel ahead of us, at the least,” Boyd seconded. “How soon will Sawyer be able to make the journey?”
Tilson must have sighed, as there was a pause before he said, “If it were up to me, an’ I know it ain’t since I am not your daddy, Sawyer, I would insist that you an’ Lorie remain here through the winter. Consider it, son. You will reach the Northland just as autumn is heavy underway. You are already off schedule, an’ haven’t the proper food stores, or shelter, nor will you have time to build these things before the snow flies. You’s in a weakened condition at present. The population that far north is sparse, at best. Hundreds of miles between any help, or neighboring folks. What if you fetch sick?”
Sawyer did not respond and I imagined him gazing at the window with a stubborn set to his jaw. He despised being subjected to these truths, I knew; he wanted to provide for us without question.
Tilson persisted, “Spend the winter recovering. Apply for land. Carter, you can apply for him, by proxy, there ain’t nothing preventing that. You an’ the boy get settled, an’ Sawyer, you can gain back your strength, learn to manage with your limited sight. Once spring rolls around, you continue the journey, and have the entire summer to build a home.” There was a pause, and then, “Dammit, I saw with my own eyes how Lorie suffered to see you hurt. I will never forget the sight of her screaming over your body. I been to War an’ I ain’t ever seen the likes of her eyes when she thought you was killed.”
“That is a good point, old friend,” Boyd said with a sense of quiet defeat, momentarily conceded though it was.
I rested my forehead to the door from the opposite side, reaching to Sawyer with my mind; he was in agony at this picture of my pain.
“I don’t tell you this to hurt you,” Tilson continued, in a tone less harsh. “I tell you because that is how very adamant I am that you do not venture north until you are able. It is what your own daddy would advise. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Sawyer whispered roughly.
I knuckled my eyes, moving quietly away from my eavesdropping and wandering slowly outside, mindful of my sore feet, where Malcolm hung on the corral fence scratching Juniper’s forehead; the old horse’s hoof gave no sign of the wound he had suffered on the outskirts of Iowa City. I joined Malcolm on the fence, stroking a finger under Stormy’s downy chin. The kitten had grown markedly since first we met, but still fancied his position on Malcolm’s shoulder. Stormy offered a companionable rumble as I petted him.
“Heya,” Malcolm greeted.
Rebecca had taken the buckboard into town, along with her boys, to bring supper to Clemens, who was boarding at the office for the time being. The yard was visited by a sense of abandonment in their absence. Malcolm read my face and guessed, “Sawyer don’t like what Tilson’s sayin’.”
“Tilson believes that you and Boyd ought to ride on, and that Sawyer and I should winter here, in Iowa,” I said. “And you are right, Sawyer dislikes being told what he is unable to do.”
“Ride ahead? You mean, without you?” Woe and outright dismay crossed paths over Malcolm’s features.
“I do not much like the thought, either,” I said, pressing against the bridge of my nose to ward away sudden tears. “I thought to be settled by the winter months. But I have counted my blessings every moment since Sawyer woke, and if remaining behind is necessary for him to be fully well, then I accept it as a minor consequence.” Eyes closed, I considered living here for the duration of the winter, and grew lost in thought. Whistler ambled over and nuzzled my chest, and I absently curled an arm about her neck. It meant we could remain in Rebecca’s company for a time, and Tilson’s, which certainly gladdened my heart. And the Rawleys were relatively near…
“But I can’t be apart from you, like I done told you,” Malcolm said miserably, and my eyes flew open. His lips trembled.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I said, heart flinching, and reached an arm for him. He tucked immediately against my side, smelling of horse and unwashed hair, though his breath was sweetened by the lemon stick he had licked through the afternoon; there was a stoneware jar of penny candies hidden in the hutch.
Face buried against my shoulder, Malcolm pronounced, “I ain’t going without you an’ Sawyer.”
I kissed the top of his head and murmured, “I fear there is not another way, unless you and Boyd remain here, as well.”
“No, Boyd aims to get north,” Malcolm said resignedly, drawing back and knuckling at his eyes. He muttered, “I’m sorry, Lorie-Lorie.”
“For what?” I asked, petting his hair, not letting him step completely away.
“For crying like a babe, that’s what. I ain’t a little kid no more,” he said, swiping at his nose, the lump in his throat thickening his voice; he turned his attention back to Juniper.
“You know what?” I asked, with great care. When Malcolm failed to respond, I did not press, and instead quietly answered my own question. “I was glad, just now.” He tilted his chin my way, dark eyes curious despite everything. I explained, “I worry there might come a time when you do not wish to seek comfort from me at all, because you will believe yourself too old. And I dread that day.” Malcolm’s eyebrows lifted and it was apparent this thought had never entered his mind. I fi
nished, “And I do hope that you understand it is quite natural to feel sadness, and weep. Even for grown men.”
“I won’t never feel that-a-way,” he insisted. “I swear, Lorie-Lorie. I love you so.”
“I love you, too,” I whispered, my throat aching. “And I want for you to write me every day, as I will miss you so very much it already hurts me, and keep Sawyer and me informed about what you are up to in Minnesota. You’ll grow this winter, and likely be as tall as Boyd by the time I see you again.”
He smiled a little at this, though tears sparkled on his lashes. The last of a red sun struck his face, bathing him in the light of day’s end; he squinted at the sudden brilliance and I was overcome with an abrupt flash of deep awareness—as though given a fleeting and unbidden glimpse of him as an adult—and an image blazed through my mind. I saw him bent low over Aces and riding hard, the animal’s muscles lathered and rippling with speed, desperate with the intensity of some purpose I could not begin to guess, or understand—
And then as quickly as it assailed, the vision disintegrated.
I blinked. The sun had set, the red glow no longer striking the boy’s features.
Malcolm bent and transferred Stormy to the ground, where the cat twined about his ankles. He coaxed, “Go on now, boy. Catch a few mice.”
“It’s pretty out, ain’t it?” Tilson asked, startling me. I had not heard him approach, and he chuckled at my jumpiness. “Beg your pardon, Lorie, I didn’t mean to sneak up. Young Malcolm, would you mind fetching an armload of wood? I thought to build a fire. Boyd has promised us music.”
Malcolm said, “Yessir,” and hurried to do Tilson’s bidding.
“Sawyer an’ Boyd wish a word with you, honey,” Tilson said. His gaze flickered over my shoulder and he observed, “There’s Becky with the wagon.”
I turned to see the cloud of dust lifted by its wheel revolutions, a good quarter mile out. Impulsively, and because I truly wished his opinion, I asked, “What of Rebecca and Boyd?”
Tilson sighed and laced together his fingers, bracing both hands atop his head in the manner of someone shrugging his shoulders with indecision. He said quietly, “Damn.”
“You do not approve?” I pressed, troubled at this notion.
“It ain’t that, Lorie. My opinion of Boyd is high, indeed. He is a hell of a man.” Tilson sighed again, with a little less gusto, and explained, “It’s that Quade requested permission for my niece’s hand long ago, an’ he has properly courted her since I gave my blessing. He aims to marry Becky, always has.”
“You consider Rebecca promised to Quade, then?” I asked, and stirrings of agitation prickled in my blood.
Tilson said quietly, “For all practical purposes, I do.”
“You don’t believe Rebecca should consider Boyd?” I whispered, even as I understood she could not, no matter how much she might wish otherwise. The wagon was near enough to us that Cort stood and waved, hollering hallo.
Tilson roughed up his hair, scrubbing the base of both palms against his eyes. He said quietly, “Becky won’t leave this place, an’ Carter aims to head north within the week. He is a man who reaches what he set out to reach, I could tell from the first. An’ Leverett has had his eye on Becky for a good year now. In many ways, Leverett is a better match for her. He is older, an’ will settle down when they marry, he has promised. He aims to get his territory reduced.”
“But he—”
Not unkindly, Tilson cut short my plea. He said, “Darlin’, I just come from talking sense into your man. I believe I have had all the talk of sense I can handle, just now.”
“Sense,” I whispered, with ironic inanity.
Looking up at the stars, Tilson murmured absently through its synonyms, “Intellect, wisdom, sagacity, logic.”
“Good judgment,” I whispered to conclude, studying him, feeling the warmth of kinship.
“Ouch!” Malcolm yelped, from out by the woodpile. He yelled, “I just got stung by some ol’ thing!” As we watched, he jumped to the side and yelped a second time, slapping indignantly at his own forearm.
Tilson snorted a laugh, muttering, “Now if we could just get the boy to demonstrate some, as well. I will sorely miss him around here.” He winked at me and said, “I, for one, am right glad to have the pleasure of yours and Sawyer’s company a little longer, at least. I would spend these months teaching you to midwife, as I promised.”
“I would like that very much,” I said sincerely.
Inside, Boyd continued to pace the bedroom, Jacob’s most recent letter in his hand. Sawyer had managed, with the aid of a hand crutch, to maneuver to the table for dinner the past week, far and away too restless to remain in the bed. His hair was unruly; he had been short-tempered earlier, and only because I knew his head was aching, I did not press when he was unwilling to let me run a comb through its much-shortened length. Just now, he sat with his back propped against the headboard; at my appearance, he set aside the tin cup of water and reached for me.
Boyd was saying, “Jacob says our stock will be accommodated by his barn for this winter. Especially if we leave Whistler an’ Admiral here for you twos to drive north in the spring. I will fill out an application for you at the land office in St. Paul, old friend. An’ then, first thing, we’ll build a cabin. The acreage Jacob wants us to claim is near his an’ Hannah’s land, close to Flickertail, Jacob said. Y’all will recall.”
Flickertail Lake had been mentioned many times in Jacob’s letters; I could see the shape of the words, written by Jacob’s hand, even now in my memory. Many hours had I spent as the wagon rumbled along, envisioning the deep-blue lake water flickering beneath the warm sun. I found its picturesque name quite enchanting and often imagined, with new variations each time, the home Sawyer and I would eventually build along its shores.
We will reach this place, I swear this, I thought, sitting near Sawyer on the bed, tenderly smoothing his hair. I could not resist teasing him a little, saying, “Did you let Tilson brush it for you?”
Sawyer grinned despite everything, poking his thumb into my ribs. He said, “No, I’ve managed it myself.”
“What say you, Lorie-girl, to spending the winter here in Iowa?” Boyd asked, joining us on the bed, sitting near Sawyer’s knees. In the waning light, no lantern having yet been lit, I studied my brother, the conversation with Tilson circling my mind. Rebecca called to her boys in the dooryard; Boyd’s gaze was drawn that direction, as a compass to north, at the sound of her voice.
I looked to Sawyer and said, “I believe it is the only choice, for now. The winter months will pass quickly,” though I despised the thought of being parted from Malcolm and Boyd for that length of time.
Sawyer curled one hand about the side of my waist, squeezing gently, and said, “I know it isn’t what we planned and I do struggle with the thought of being so indebted, but Tilson is right, I am in no shape to travel. We will winter in Iowa if that suits you, Lorie-love, and continue north as soon as we are able.” Sawyer rested his hand upon my thigh, which I slanted towards him.
“It suits me to take care of you,” I said, leaning to press a kiss to his jaw. “And it suits me to remain near Rebecca. I care deeply for her.”
Boyd’s chest lifted with tense, indrawn air at my words. He closed his eyes.
I added quickly, “And Tilson. We are indeed indebted to them, for so many things.”
“Tilson said he and Clemens would construct a lean-to alongside this house, for us,” Sawyer said, though I could sense his unspoken concern for Boyd. My surprise evident at this statement, Sawyer explained, “Tilson assured me that he’s been considering the lean-to since last winter, as they are so crowded with the five of them already.” He looked to Boyd and understood somberly, “You and Malcolm will be on your way before too long, I would imagine.”
Boyd opened his eyes. He said quietly, “Within the week, now that the decision’s been made. I ain’t been apart from you for more’n a few days since we was nineteen, old friend. Even
during the War, we was always with each other. I reckon I won’t know what to do with myself.” Sawyer reached and curled his hand over Boyd’s. Boyd vowed, “But I aim to finish this journey. I survived the War, I left the place of my birth, an’ I mean to get where I set out to get.”
“We won’t be far behind,” Sawyer promised. “The winter will pass quickly.”
Malcolm banged inside the front door and then into the bedroom. He was visibly out of breath.
“Hold up, boy, what’s got you worked up?”
“Quade just rode in,” Malcolm answered his brother. “An’ he brung roses for Mrs. Rebecca. Said he found ’em blooming on the prairie.”
Boyd covered his face with both hands. Though pain raked his throat, he said only, “It’s for the best.”
At last he lifted his gaze to Malcolm and his dark eyes burned with determination. He said, “Let’s go north, shall we?”
_ _ _
The story continues in Grace of a Hawk, coming in 2017
Acknowledgments
The creation of a book is an intricate process that is never the solitary work of the writer. I want to thank those of you who contributed to the writing of this book, whether consciously or not, including the incredible musicians, primarily in the stringband and bluegrass genres, whose artistry inspired me during all those late nights (my preferred writing time), and the readers whose spirited emails requesting more about Lorie and Sawyer, Boyd and Malcolm, and of course Whistler, gave me even more reason to continue their journey. I truly love these characters; when the series is complete I will go into a mourning of sorts, likened best perhaps to the way you feel when your child experiences newfound independence in any capacity, whether heading to nursery school or embarking upon his or her own marriage, when you think, I’ve done my best and I can’t look back now.
Soul of a Crow Page 45
