Heart of a Dove (21 page)

His voice was frank and sincere as he spoke of his past, his eyes over the water, reflective. I imagined all too vividly the nightmares of which he spoke.

“When Boyd told us of Jacob’s letter last winter, and then Gus suggested that we should leave Tennessee, I knew in my heart that it was the right decision. As much as I love home, I know I could no longer live there. Part of why I became a soldier in the first place was to watch over my brothers. There was nothing I could do save them, though I would have given my own life to do so, a thousand times over. They were killed in the same battle, at Murfreesboro, January second, ’sixty-three, and there wasn’t one blessed thing I could do to change that.” His lips twisted at this memory, his wide shoulders hunching forward in unconscious defense. He whispered hoarsely, “I will never forgive myself for living through that battle when my brothers did not.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, a thickness in my throat. “That was why my father joined up, too, to watch over my brothers. But no one has that much power, no one.” The Cause had robbed us of our families, amounted to a sickening, worthless waste of human life.
Why
they had gone to fight, so clear at the time, made less than no sense now. I cared little if it was unpatriotic, perhaps even sacrilegious, to think that way; it was true, though the acknowledgment of such thoughts would not bring them back. Nearly three years had passed since I had laid eyes upon any of my family still living; sometimes, it was as though my parents, my brothers, had never existed at all.

“Thank God for Gus,” Sawyer said, drawing me from my frightful thoughts. “He saved me, when I would have as soon died there in Suttonville. I would sit between my brothers’ graves in the old cemetery there by the church, and drink until I couldn’t walk, couldn’t think. My entire family is buried there, my folks and grandfolks, every last Davis but for me. What a terrible sight I must have made, sprawled between their graves with a bottle in my hand. The only thing that kept me alive was Whistler, my sweet girl. I didn’t know what would become of her if I died.”

Oh Sawyer, oh God
.

My heart lashed at my ribs as he spoke, begging me to rise to my knees and take him into my arms. Of course I could never do such a thing; it was dangerous to even consider. He seemed to come back to himself, to the present, blinking and then regarding me with the same serious nature to which I was growing accustomed. For a long, spiraling moment we stared at each other, and I was overwhelmed by the notion that I had always known him, had been moving towards him forever, far beyond our meeting scarce a week ago. It swam through my blood and echoed in my heart, my soul. I sensed strongly that he was struck by this similar, familiar notion; his eyes drove into mine with all of the same confusion and intensity that was within me. I almost could not bear it.

He asked me, softly, “Would you like to ride Whistler?”

“Ride her?” I repeated, startled. “Now?”

He nodded and reminded me, “You used to ride horses as a little girl.”

I felt my lips lift into a tentative smile, reflecting a faint and wholly unexpected lightening of spirit. I nodded again, though I felt compelled to ask, “But what about fishing?”

He looked at our supplies and then decided, “We’ll come back later.”

Something else occurred to me and I said, “I have no riding clothes.”

He shrugged as though it was of no consequence, and I thought he might actually smile in return. He didn’t, though his tone was likewise light as he said, “Well, Malcolm won’t mind if you borrow a shirt and a pair of his trousers for a little while. I’m certain.”

Within ten minutes I had shucked my dress and tucked my shift into a pair of Malcolm’s pants, buttoned one of his chambray shirts over my chest; it was a touch snug there. Other than that, his clothing fit loosely and I rolled the sleeves to expose my hands and wrists. I wore my own walking boots, so excited at the prospect of such a gift that I didn’t care that my heels were aching. It had been years since I’d ridden a horse alone, a simple and exhilarating pleasure I’d missed desperately. When I emerged, Sawyer had Whistler saddled and ready, and his lips softened just slightly as he looked at me. He became very businesslike in the next moment, asking, “You sure you’re all right riding alone?”

I nodded, unable to keep the eagerness from my face. I approached her carefully, wanting to prove to him that I knew plenty about horses myself. I paused at her nose and cupped my hands, letting her nuzzle my palms for the first time since I’d dared to approach her in the evening. It was impossible not to speak to her, as it was impossible not to croon to a plump newborn, or a small, bright-eyed child.

I said, “Hello there, sweet girl,” using Sawyer’s expression. “You pretty girl. I wish I had an apple for you.”

She blew warm air into my palms, nickering, and then bumped her nose against my chest, lightly. Her intelligent brown eyes smiled at me. She was the most beautiful horse I’d seen since my daddy’s prize palomino, Felicity’s Desire. I felt myself smiling at her in joy and Sawyer handed me the reins as I stepped around to her left side. He didn’t move to help me mount, not that I required it, but he didn’t step entirely away either, as though to make certain I knew what I was doing. I paused, sensing him there. Had I turned in that moment before placing my foot in the stirrup, I could have laid my cheek against his chest.

I climbed swiftly atop Whistler before I could act upon that thought, feeling the familiar roll of a horse beneath my body. Sawyer moved with graceful efficiency to shorten the stirrups, while I let my eyes roam over the prairie from the vantage point I had once known well. His shoulder bumped against my leg, gently, as he finished his ministrations. He stepped back and then looked up at me, the sun again glinting upon the wealth of gold in his eyes.

“She’s all yours,” he said, studying me, and now that I knew the story of him and Whistler, at least a small slice of it, I understood what a true gift he was actually bestowing.

In response, I nudged her flank lightly with my heels, simultaneously shifting my hips, and she moved at once forward, prancing with her forelegs as though to show off for me. I took her in a slow circle around the camp, letting myself grow used to the feeling of her gait, smooth as whipping cream. She was a magnificent animal, her ears cocked back at me awaiting command. As I completed the circle, back to Sawyer, who stood observing with his hands on his hips, he called, “Is that the best you’ve got?”

“Come on, girl,” I murmured, and Whistler’s pointed ears twitched at my voice. I squeezed her right flank with my knee, again urging with my hips, holding her reins with just enough slack. I told her, “Let’s run.”

She responded immediately, wheeling to the right and moving swiftly into a canter, no jouncing trot in the interim. I leaned over her neck, the wind combing my hair with its restless fingers, hearing laughter burble from my throat as we raced away from the river, her hooves striking the earth with the three-beat rhythm I knew so well. I curbed the intense urge to keep riding, hell-fire fast. The landscape flashed by and I sensed Whistler’s exuberance; she was enjoying herself as much as I was.

“Good girl!” I shouted to her, knowing I had to turn back before I went too far and thus tried Sawyer’s certainly limited patience. I eased to sit straight, drawing a hair’s breadth on her reins, squeezing with my left knee so that she’d circle ’round. Whistler turned with a motion as graceful as a dancer, tossing her head and then running hard back for camp. I was startled by how tiny the tents appeared in the distance; we’d covered more ground than I’d intended. When we were roughly fifty yards away, I drew back again, slowing her to a walk, entering the camp to find Sawyer standing in observance, his face somber.

I was slightly breathless as we approached him, exhilarated.

He called, surprising me, “Why are you stopping?”

I leaned over Whistler’s neck and rubbed her warm hide briskly. I called back, “You don’t mind?”

“I’ll join you,” he said, moving for Juniper. “We’ll catch up.”

Instead of replying, I turned Whistler into the open prairie again, giving her leeway to fly. She had rippled from a canter into a gallop before I realized that Juniper was coming behind us, closing rank swiftly. I dared to peer over my shoulder and saw that Sawyer hadn’t bothered to saddle the bay. He looked so natural on a horse, so effortless, riding as though born to it, the reins draped casually in his right hand. He drew even with us and called over, “Come on!”

Whistler responded to his voice more than anything, tossing her head and following as Juniper took the lead.

“Come on, sweet girl,” I urged her. I was rather unwilling to let them nose ahead, though after a minute Sawyer drew back on the reins, elbows jutting, and slowed Juniper to a walk. I did the same with Whistler, who again tossed her head, almost coquettishly, moving to butt it once against Sawyer’s thigh as he rode a horse other than her. To my amazement, he laughed at her antics, shoving her away good-naturedly, unaware of what was happening inside of me to observe what laughter did to his face.

Oh sweet Jesus, he is beautiful.

He looked over at me, still smiling.

“Lorie, look there,” he said then, nodding towards the western horizon. Beyond the river there roamed a lone buffalo, hulking and enormous, even with the distance separating us. Whistler caught its scent and whinnied, while Juniper remained stoically silent. Sawyer drew him to a halt then and I let Whistler dance around Juniper; the quarter horse remained unaffected, not giving in to her provocation.

“Boyd thought for a time about becoming a buffalo hunter,” Sawyer said as he watched the creature, giving me an excuse to look at him. My heart surged against my ribs, almost painfully. He sat straight, with his hips relaxed, right hand still holding the reins loosely, the other stroking Juniper’s warm neck. His lips were at ease. I knew without a doubt that today I had finally been allowed to see the real Sawyer.

“He did?” I asked, looking back at the buffalo, roaming alone on the prairie.

“So many of the men we served with in the War moved west to do the same. Or to work the Union Pacific. There’s money in both, and Boyd’s a hell of a shot.”

“Buffalo hunting seems a gruesome job,” I said honestly.

Sawyer shifted in the saddle and said, “It does, and I couldn’t stomach the killing, not after the War. Boyd, either.”

We were scarcely three feet from one another. I said with heartfelt sincerity, “Thank you so very much for letting me ride her.”

“You are so very welcome,” he said, his deep voice that I seemed to feel in my belly.

I wished so many things, improbable, impossible things…that he would dismount and climb behind me on Whistler, his thighs aligning with mine from behind, his powerful arms wrapping around me to hold the reins, his chest against my back. He was stroking Juniper’s neck, the way he usually did with Whistler.

No, Lorie. He isn’t yours, and he cannot ever be.

But my heart ached with a desperate insistence that he was indeed mine.

I swallowed hard and made myself turn away, saying, “We best head back.”

“You’re right, they’ll be back directly.”

I turned Whistler with firm movements, urging her into motion; she sensed my agitation and responded accordingly, flowing back the way we’d come. Behind us I heard Juniper gaining ground and dared a peek over my shoulder. Sawyer was leaning low over Juniper’s neck and it was clear he intended to outrun us. I turned back to Whistler, imploring her rather desperately, “
Giddup
!” and heeling her flanks. I leaned over her neck, suddenly steeped in competition, the kind I hadn’t felt since trying to beat my brothers long ago.

I felt Whistler’s muscles ripple beneath me as she maintained the lead, and Sawyer shouted, “No, ma’am!”

“Ha!” I shouted back, laughing almost hysterically, though he was closing fast.

“No!” I yelped. “Whistler, giddup, girl,
go
!”

We galloped hard, my long braid slapping my spine; mere feet from my right stirrup, Juniper nearly edged into the lead, Sawyer bowed low over his neck, his eyes intent. As we closed on the camp, I realized that the men were indeed back, dismounting and certainly wondering what we were doing. I reached the edge just a fraction ahead, though at the last instant Sawyer took Juniper to the right and I took Whistler to the left, circling the tents while Malcolm whooped at us and shouted, “What the heck you two doing?”

Juniper and Whistler slowed into walks, crossing paths at the far side of our camp. I reined her around to face Sawyer, hearing the sound of my triumphant cry, “We won!”

“Not by a long shot,” he returned, teasing, reining around to face me at the same instant. The horses danced around one another, Whistler high-stepping as though to taunt them. I found myself again much too intent upon Sawyer’s gaze and darted my own away, just as Malcolm came bolting into sight and yelled, “Hey! Lorie, you wearing my clothes?”

My face was hot; I slid easily from Whistler’s back, keeping the reins in my hands. Sawyer was there in an instant to collect them, also holding Juniper’s, and I found I couldn’t draw a full breath, let alone meet his eyes. Instead I focused with welcome upon Malcolm, who caught me unceremoniously by the wrists the instant my hands were free, and held my arms out to the sides as Sawyer led the horses away.

“I knew it,” he said, releasing my wrists and shaking his shaggy head as though irritated. I knew he was not, just teasing me. He added, “You look like a girl playing dress-up in her daddy’s clothes.”

“You don’t mind, do you?” I asked him, my voice embarrassingly unsteady. I hoped he figured it was from the race.

“Heck, no,” he said, and then added, “But c’mon, you best change, Lorie-Lorie. We been invited to dinner.”

- 13 -

An hour later the sun was melting into the west in a hot river of molten gold. Boyd was especially disappointed that we’d not caught so much as a single fish.

“You two was having too much fun racing horses,” Malcolm complained as he, Angus and I rode three abreast on the wagon seat, me squeezed comfortably in the middle, Admiral tethered on a long lead line to the back of the wagon, clomping along behind. No matter what, the men refused to leave their horses behind, even such a short distance. Sawyer and Boyd were just ahead on Whistler and Fortune, chatting together.

I could not keep my eyes from Sawyer as he rode; no matter how many times I redirected my gaze at the magnificent setting sun, or to my hands in my lap, or Malcolm’s profile as he chattered, my eyes moved relentlessly back to Sawyer. I fidgeted endlessly, tucking hair behind my ears as it escaped from its pins; I’d dressed properly and pinned up my hair, in deference to the strangers who had invited us to dine with them. I was nervous about meeting them, my face warm and my heart refusing to stop fluttering.

“They’re a kind couple,” Angus told me, on my right. “Bound for Montana Territory.”

“And they’ve five young’uns,” Malcolm explained again. “Two boys an’ three girls. Though I’m older’n all of them.” He turned to me and complained, “Why’d Sawyer let you ride Whistler? I been begging an’ begging.”

“Perhaps it was his way of apologizing,” Angus said quietly, his tone hushing Malcolm’s petulance.

“For what?” Malcolm piped then, and I asked immediately, “What are the children’s names?”

Malcolm’s lips protruded as he struggled to recall, at last reciting, “Cole, Annabel, May, Charles, an’ Susanna. She’s the baby, still on the breast, she is.”

“Son, I’ll ask you to mind your manners one more time,” Angus said mildly.

“Gus, I know, I know,” he said, and in the next moment I could smell a cookfire and caught sight of two covered wagons, a passel of children running through the grass like prairie chickens. This family possessed six horses I could see, plus a pair of dirty-white pigs. A lean, spare man rose from his seat at a wooden table one would normally see in a farmhouse kitchen and lifted his hand to greet us, joined momentarily by a woman in a full-skirted dress, a child of perhaps a year or so caught on her hip. Anxiety rippled across my skin, though they smiled and called over; I reminded myself that they had no idea I’d spent the last three years of my life as a whore.

“Gus, welcome,” the man said as Malcolm drew Juniper to a halt. Boyd and Sawyer dismounted, immediately removing their hats.

Angus hopped down and then lifted me; I was overwhelmed as the children came running and the woman moved to me at once and hugged me briefly with her free arm, then drew back and smiled into my eyes.

“So good to see a woman,” she said. She was perhaps middle thirties, thin as rake handle, though I would have known her for a nursing mother had Malcolm not mentioned; her breasts were large beneath her faded dress. She had red hair swept into a bun and blue eyes in a deeply-tanned face. “I’m Una Spicer. Welcome, Lorissa. We’ve heard all about you from your brothers today, haven’t we, children?”

The group of them all spoke at once, the girls with their hair in long braids that fell over their shoulders, sunbonnets trailing down their backs. The eldest boy was no more than a year younger than Malcolm, with beautiful red-gold hair, and he looked just as full of mischief. I made up my mind to keep at least a partial eye on the two of them.

“Welcome,” the father said, coming to shake my hand. “Henry Spicer, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”

“Please, call me Lorie,” I told them, smiling in return. Una Spicer appropriated my elbow and led me to their table.

“We’ve brought as much of our furniture as we could stuff within the supply wagon,” she explained. “The chairs don’t set quite right on the ground, but it beats the dirt. Girls, fetch Miss Lorie a glass of lemonade.”

“You’ve lemonade?” I asked in awe.

Una smiled and sat near me; the child on her hip regarded me with wide blue eyes, hooking a finger into the side of her mouth. “Yes, though not for long, as our lemon supply is running low. Here,” she added, as I beamed at the baby. “Would you like to hold her?”

I nodded and she passed the little one to my arms; she was swaddled in linens about her bottom, dressed in a faded calico pinafore. She smelled of milk and some indefinable sweetness, and came willingly to my arms, studying me frankly.

“My arm does ache after a spell,” Una said. “Susanna gets right heavy. My, but you’re lovely. I must tell you.”

My eyebrows lifted in embarrassment at the compliment. I murmured, “Thank you,” as one of the older girls deposited a tin cup of lemonade before me on the table. Again I said, “Thank you,” and flushed with nerves.

Una smiled and said, “If you don’t mind holding the baby, I’ll get our dinner directly. Do please make yourself at home.”

She rose and I marveled at the simultaneous luxury and strangeness of sitting at a real table, how incongruous it was to be doing so outside on the prairie. It was a gorgeous evening, the humidity of the day creating a haze over the setting sun; one could look upon it without squinting, a perfect, shimmering magenta, dazzling to the eyes. It streaked long beams of the same tint over the rolling expanse of prairie, and I found myself thinking yet again of what I’d discussed with Sawyer at the riverbank today.

My eyes immediately found him; I knew his exact location, though I hadn’t been looking his way. He was standing, chatting with Henry Spicer, Gus and Boyd, and just the sight of him across the way made my throat ache with something I could not have articulated. All of it, the angle of the sun, the very air, combined to make my eyes sting with unshed tears. As I watched, his eyes sought mine and he held my gaze, his lips softening into a smile. I smiled back at him before I could help it, radiantly, the force of it swelling within me.

Malcolm dashed to me and broke our line of sight, saying, “Lorie, you want to play tag with us?”

Malcolm’s dark eyes sparkled at me; just beyond his shoulder, Cole, the eldest Spicer boy, regarded me with a similar naughty twinkle. I said, lowering my voice, “I’m chatting with Mrs. Spicer.”

“No, you ain’t, she’s at the fire,” Malcolm observed and I gave him my best approximation of a big sister’s stern gaze.

“And I’m holding this little one,” I said, bouncing her on my arm. “You play a bit before we eat.”

“Aw right, but you must dance with me later, when they play music,” he said, and I nodded.

Una’s girls set the table with practiced motions, bringing to my mind images of the dining room at home, its walls decorated in draped cream silk, Mama’s china cabinet of gleaming cherrywood, from which I’d pluck the delicate plates to set our dining table. The Spicer girls regarded me with shy smiles, assuring me I needn’t move or assist them when I offered. I scooted back my chair, with difficulty, so I could set the baby on my knees. She watched her big sisters work with solemn eyes. I found myself stroking through her feather-soft blond hair, taking pleasure in its downy softness. The girls loaded the table with a platter of biscuits, a bowl of boiled potatoes and another of roasted pig. I eyed the other two pigs, grazing a few yards away, guessing they must have numbered three before this morning.

“Gentlemen, children, dinner!” Una called, and swept to me to collect her youngest, who she placed gently into a woven basket on the ground near the table, handing the little one a dry biscuit to gum.

“We’re here, at the blanket,” explained one of the girls, importantly, as Malcolm began to pull out the chair beside mine.

Malcolm turned and studied the blanket with skeptical eyebrows and the girl added, with an edge of irritation, “There ain’t enough chairs, otherwise,” and yanked at his elbow.

I giggled at Malcolm’s expression, thinking perhaps he’d met his match. The men remained standing until Una was seated at the foot, to my right, with Henry at the head of the table. Angus took the chair across from me, Boyd to his right, and Sawyer to my left. Henry bowed his head to pray, and we all did likewise, even the children on the blanket. I bit back a smile as I heard the girl who’d reprimanded Malcolm scolding him again, saying, “Pa is praying, hush!”

“Dear Father,” Henry said. “Thank You for the gift of this food we are about to eat, and the gift of company to share it with us. I ask that You continue to bless our family on our journey. In Your name we pray, amen.”

“Amen,” we all murmured, and then waited as Henry loaded a plate for each of us by turns. The children formed a line after the adults had been served and Henry patiently dished up each of theirs before at last taking his seat.

The men chatted of horses and wagon wheels, the price of silver, while Una engaged me in eager conversation; it was apparent she was delighted to have a woman to chat with.

“You’re all from Tennessee, is that correct?” she asked, using her toe to gently rock the baby’s basket.

“Yes, ma’am, the eastern part of the state,” I told her, reminding myself that she believed me to be Boyd and Malcolm’s sister, and no idea where I had truly been living the past three years.

“Do you find the journey difficult?”

“There are difficult parts, but I enjoy it, too,” I answered with honesty, despite keeping the response vague.

“I am finding it a right adventure,” Una said. “I spent my entire life in Illinois. I was worried so, at first, to take the children from what they’d always known. But they have enjoyed the travels, the new country. I’m anxious to see Independence, after hearing so much about it these past months as we’ve been preparing for our journey.”

After we’d eaten our fill, Una apologized profusely for having no dessert to offer.

“Were we home, Una would have a Boston cream pie for all of us, at the very least. She prides herself on desserts, don’t you, my dear?” Henry said, winking at his wife as he pushed back his chair and accepted a smoke from Boyd. “Don’t mind if I do.”

I was at last able to turn to my left, towards Sawyer, and my heart fluttered and skipped along as I looked at him to my heart’s content, if even for a moment. The sun set as we’d dined, prompting Una to light two tin lanterns. The children had finished and were swarming the table, one of the little boys climbing atop Angus’s lap to show him a wooden toy, Boyd and Henry smoking and chatting while Una bustled to clear plates.

“May I help?” I asked her, moving as though to rise.

“No, no, please, you’re my company. My mother would faint if she thought I’d allowed company to clear the table, even one on the wild prairie,” Una assured me, and I smiled at this mention of a mother much like my own.

Sawyer leaned near me and murmured, “Look at the kid,” nodding towards Malcolm, who was busy showcasing his strength, holding out his arms and allowing the Spicer girls to hang suspended from them, though they had to lift their feet to do so, and then nearly bowed him over in the process.

I smiled, and Sawyer’s gaze held me steadily as he smiled too. It was as though he was making up for all of the stern and impassive expressions he’d worn thus far, and my heart jolted to see his smile. He appeared almost boyish in the fading light, his eyes upon mine. I had never longed so utterly for someone’s attention.

“He always used to beg for me or Boyd to do that to him,” Sawyer went on, back to watching Malcolm as the boy straightened and readied himself for another go. “That kid is something else. I would do about anything for him, even if he is a devil at times.”

I giggled, though I couldn’t look away from Sawyer.

“When he knocked you to the ground, I thought Boyd might actually take a strap to him,” Sawyer said.

“No, heavens no, it was all in fun,” I said. “It was good to laugh.”

“He’s rather taken with you,” Sawyer informed me, his gaze coming back to mine. “In case you hadn’t gathered.”

I felt my cheeks heating, glad for the gloaming light. I said, “He did propose two days past,” and Sawyer leaned back to laugh. I watched, fascinated.

“I mighta known,” he said, his Tennessee drawl more pronounced than ever. “Then he swims naked in front of you. That kid.”

I felt shivery all along my limbs and could not seem to keep a smile from my lips. I was clasping my hands in my lap, almost trembling as he continued to study my eyes in the din of everyone else chatting and laughing, the scent of tobacco smoke drifting pleasantly over our heads.

“We didn’t try fishing again,” I said inanely, because I had to say something, my voice hitching a little.

“It was better to talk,” he replied, low, while my mind was once more flooded with a picture of riding home, to our camp, wrapped in his powerful arms and against his chest, with Whistler beneath us. I drew a tight breath and the expression in his eyes changed subtly, I could see it even in the apricot glow of the candles, his lashes lowering just a fraction as his gaze moved to my lips and the smile fell slowly from his.

I realized with a start that everyone was standing and we looked instantly apart, breaking our absorption with one another, though Sawyer stood to draw back my chair over the uneven ground, as would any gentleman. I stumbled as I rose, but he caught me securely about the waist with his right arm, not lingering even a fraction after he steadied me. It was, however, enough time for arrows of heat to arc through my body.

“Have you been at the whiskey?” he teased. The men were moving the chairs to the fire, and Sawyer took both of ours, one in each arm, effortlessly.

I walked just ahead of him to the fire. I saw Boyd fetching his fiddle case from our wagon, and noticed that Henry Spicer was likewise settling himself on a dining table chair and proceeding to tune his own. Sawyer set down our chairs just as one of the girls shouted, “Look!” in a tone that indicated alarm, and everyone’s heads turned at once.

Before I realized that he’d moved, Sawyer had put me behind him with one arm, angling himself, shielding me.

“No cause for concern, it’s just lightning bugs,” Una called; she had a better angle to catch a glimpse of where her daughter was pointing.