Heart of a Dove (24 page)

“Now that you’re my sister an’ all,” he declared. And then, “Lorie, you’re a mite sweaty.”

I was, and I promised him I’d wash his clothes at first opportunity.

We stopped for the first time in the late afternoon, letting the horses drink their fill at a small creek, glinting blue promises at my hot skin. I was on the wagon seat, waiting to drive it over; Boyd had agreed to let me, as it was shallow, and handed over the lead lines. Angus and Admiral were just to the right, Angus with one hand curved over the top edge of the wagon.

“You ready, Lorie?” Angus asked and I nodded, flicking the lines over Juniper and Fortune, who carried us easily across; the deepest part scarcely reached the middle of the wheels. It wasn’t until I cleared the far bank and then tried my hand at jumping down unassisted that I caught my boot on the wheel and fell flat into the wet, rocky shallows of the creek.

I heard numerous sounds of alarm as I floundered to a sitting position, my elbows aching where I’d landed. Boyd and Angus were there in an instant, and Angus helped me gently to my feet.

Malcolm called over, “You all right, Lorie?” and I nodded, though my knees were hurting too. Angus led me to the dry bank and helped me sit.

“Here, you’re bleeding,” he said calmly, carefully rolling the trousers up past my knees. “How about your elbows?”

I nodded, mortified, again feeling like a little girl. I worked to roll up the sleeves of Malcolm’s shirt, further humiliated when I realized I’d ripped his clothing. Sawyer and Malcolm were upon us then and both of them looked so worried that I wanted to hide my face. Malcolm dropped to a crouch and inspected the scrapes on my knees, pronouncing, “Aw, these ain’t so bad.”

“They’ll sting though,” Sawyer said softly, and he had a linen handkerchief that he’d dipped in the water, kneeling just to Malcolm’s side and pressing it gently to my right knee. He said, “Here, Gus, take yours and wet it, too,” and Angus hurried to do so.

Sawyer’s hat hung down his back, a loose strand of his hair along the right side of his face, near the slash of his scar. He was so near, and immediate, his strong, capable hand dabbing blood from me yet again, as he had when I’d stepped on the splinter. He looked up from my leg and then into my eyes, the warmth of him spiking through me. He refolded the linen and moved it to my other knee.

“Thank you,” I told him, trembling a little. But it was because of him and because he was touching me, however lightly and with extreme care, and I had found that I longed increasingly for his touch.

“Here, use this,” Angus said, wringing out the second handkerchief and then passing it to my hands. His eyes were glinting with their usual good humor, and he added, “And next time, my dear, let me assist you from the wagon.”

“When there’s four of us to leap to your aid too, Lorie-girl,” Boyd chastised in a teasing voice. “Trousers or not, you’re still a lady. An’ ladies need help from wagons, sure thing.”

I recognized their insistent desire to provide such courteous care; they had all been raised this way, Tennessee gentlemen whose mothers would take them instantly to task if they didn’t rush to assist the nearest lady. I had been raised to expect such as well, though I had since learned the value of being able to help myself too. Though I admitted, in my heart, that it was a pleasure to be treated as a lady. I accepted the wet linen and wrapped it about my elbow. Sawyer’s hand was cupped around my left knee, heating my flesh, despite the presence of the damp cloth between our skin. He seemed to realize that he didn’t need to hold it in place and leaned back, our eyes clinging for a last moment.

“Lorie, if you wanna take a swim, just tell me, I’ll swim with you. You don’t gotta dive in alone,” Malcolm teased then, and I giggled.

“I could use one,” I allowed. “I’m a mess.”

We rested for a spell. Boyd lay flat on his back on the sunny bank, staring up at the clouds as he smoked, while Malcolm played in the creek, barefoot, cajoling Angus to try and catch minnows with him. I remained sitting in the shade, straightening my legs and transferring the linens from knee to knee, and Sawyer, following Boyd’s example, stretched to one elbow near my side, his long legs extending far beyond mine. He kept enough distance for propriety but was still so near that had I been brave enough, I could have reached but inches and curled my hand over his shoulder. His wide shoulders that I was sure a three-foot ax handle would not be enough to measure. There had been no chance to shave, as I knew all three of them preferred, and near two days’ growth of whiskers stubbled his jaws, his chin, shades darker than his hair. Again my belly pulsed with a feeling I had never known, a pure and plaintive wanting that was threatening to consume me. Though I pretended to watch Malcolm playing, splashing at Angus, I was truly intent upon Sawyer, conscious of his every breath.

Oh Sawyer, Sawyer.

This cannot be, Lorie, it cannot
.

And yet it was.

“Think you’ll be able to travel?” he teased me and I felt his gaze, though courage had deserted me and I was too flustered to look over at him.

I nodded.

“We’ve hours before sunset,” he said, no longer with a teasing tone. “Would you rather ride? I’ll let you take Whistler, but only if you stay near the wagon and keep me company.”

I braved his golden-green gaze. His beautiful hawk eyes were steady in their regard.

Only if you ride her with me
, I said in my mind, though I knew that he sensed my thought, saw what I longed for in my eyes, as heat flashed in his, leaping between us.

I was somehow certain that he responded with,
Later. I promise you, later
.

Boyd rolled to his own elbow, closer to the water and in the sun, and peered over his shoulder at us, exhaling smoke through both nostrils. He called, “You two alive back there, or what?”

I giggled and Sawyer said lazily, “Just resting, is all. As if you don’t know about that.”

“I am a man who appreciates a good rest,” Boyd agreed, winking at me and then sprawling flat to his back again, bending one forearm to brace over his eyes.

“Sawyer, come on an’ catch me some of these little fish!” Malcolm called, hands on his skinny hips. “An’ you never did catch us no trout, like you promised, Lorie-Lorie!”

“I’ll try again,” I told him.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Sawyer said to me, before rising gracefully. He gave me a last look before he headed to the creek, pausing at Boyd’s side to step lightly on his belly. Boyd’s head came up and then he chased after Sawyer, catching him around the waist from behind, as though to propel him into the water.

Sawyer laughed and tried to twist away, and they struggled, Boyd still with his smoke dangling from his lips. I giggled at their playing; Malcolm, unable to help himself, monkeyed atop Boyd’s back. The three of them, locked together, lumbered into deeper water, and Boyd, spying a sudden advantage in position, lowered his grip enough to catch Sawyer behind the knees. With much displacement of water, they went toppling tail over teakettle into the creek. Juniper and Admiral paid no attention, though Whistler snorted and neighed, Aces and Fortune dancing on their tethers at their masters’ antics.

“Goddammit!” Boyd yelped upon surfacing with arms wind-milling, though I could tell he wasn’t truly angry. He hollered, “Now I’ll have to dig out my dry britches or have a rash all over my ass!”

Sawyer was laughing, still sitting in water to his chest, and he thumped Boyd across the back of the head at those words, indicating my presence with his other hand. I was laughing too, even as Boyd yelled, “My apologies, Lorie-girl!” and then struck like a bull, taking Sawyer back into the water. Their legs thrashed and Malcolm dove into the fray, the long sunbeams of approaching evening spangling the resultant splashes with gold. Dozens of cottonwood seeds floated atop the water’s surface, backlit by the sun and stirred into furious motion.

“Gus, stop them!” I called, only half teasing. “They’ll listen to you.”

Angus shook his head and called back, “It wouldn’t do any good, I tell you.”

Boys played so much differently than girls…men, acting like boys, in this particular case. I recalled Dalton and Jesse throwing each other around the yard, beating each other bloody at times but running thick as thieves at all others. When I’d tried to play their games, I’d nearly always ended up in tears. Angus came over and helped me to my feet, then used his remaining clean handkerchief to swipe dust from my cheek. My eyes were still on what appeared to be the outright violence in the creek, though Angus remained unconcerned.

“Thank you,” I told him. “I must look a mess.”

“We’ll camp and then you can tidy up,” Angus assured me. He cast his gaze about the creek bank and then said, “Perhaps here.”

“And wash all of these clothes,” I added, as Sawyer’s deep voice yelped in hoarse laughter and seconds later Boyd’s cry of surrender rose over the water.

“No, never!” Malcolm huffed. “Carters never surren—” His words were cut short as he was yanked back into the water with a tremendous splash.

“For certain here,” Angus said then.

The sun was half-sunk in the west before the tents had been erected, the fire built, and the horses set to graze twenty yards out. Angus strung a clothes line between two trees, and most of our laundry was fluttering in a light evening breeze; two pairs of soaking boots had been set out to start drying in the last of the sun. Malcolm was at present seated atop Boyd’s back, sideways, which put him at an appropriate height for trimming his hair. He had a handkerchief stuffed up one nostril, courtesy of a bloody nose from playing in the creek. I had reprimanded all three of them, much to their collective amusement. Boyd, growing contrite, played along very nicely as I’d cast about for something even fractionally resembling a barber’s chair. He observed me for a moment and then crawled over on hands and knees like a donkey and waited patiently until I realized. I was back in my own clothes, my damp hair braided and hanging over one shoulder as I regarded Malcolm’s wet, shaggy head with my mother’s brush in one hand and the new scissors in the other.

Sawyer and Gus sat at the fire, cleaning their rifles and watching the proceedings with interest. I tried not to let myself be too utterly distracted by the hawk eyes I could feel lingering upon me time and again; it was all I could do not to fall right into them.

“Boyd, you must hold still,” I complained, giggling at the sight of him, barefoot and solid as an ox, letting Malcolm sit upon his back. I draped a linen over both Malcolm’s shoulders and under him, to catch the clipped hair.

Boyd hung his head and mourned, “Boy, your rear is bony as a witch’s ribs. I’ll be bruised to hell.”

Malcolm wiggled purposely and Boyd threatened, “I’ll buck you off!”

“Stop it, both of you!” I told them. “Or I’ll never get this done.”

“Hear that, our sis is taking a tone with us,” Boyd said, and I poked him in the leg with my bare toes.

I turned the scissors lengthwise and clamped them between my lips to free my hands for brushing, as Mama used to when she would trim up my brothers. I worked the bristles and my fingers through Malcolm’s thick dark hair, untangling as gently as I could manage. His slim shoulders drooped and he muttered, “That feels right nice, Lorie.”

Once combed soft, I set the brush to the ground and used my first two fingers as markers to gauge how much to trim, again mimicking Mama. I worked around Malcolm’s head, stopping when he’d shiver.

“Sorry, it gives me chills,” he explained.

“Lorie-girl, my arms ain’t gonna hold forever,” Boyd warned. He looked over at Sawyer and added, “You’re next there, dandy man.”

Sawyer laughed at that, though my eyes flickered to his golden hair, wishing I could untie its binding and then feel it beneath my hands. I imagined how I would wind my fingers into it, press my lips against it…

“Not him, he’s right vain about his hair,” Malcolm teased, as he had told me days before. He singsonged, “What would ladies have to run their fingers through?”

Angus snorted and then chuckled, as Sawyer shook his head slowly at Malcolm and went back to oiling his rifle.

Boyd suggested amiably, “How about—”

Malcolm cut him off with a slap to the back of the head, yelping, “Not in front of Lorie!”

“There, you’re all done,” I told the boy, ignoring their teasing, moving in front of him and taking him by the shoulders to inspect my work.

“Thanks Lorie-Lorie. How do I look?” he asked eagerly.

My heart swelled with love for him. I smiled and said, “You’re welcome. And very nice. Properly trimmed up.”

He threw off the towel and rose, while Boyd rolled to a sitting position and said, “Have we the cards handy, Gus? I could relish a good game or two.”

“We have,” Angus said agreeably. “Give me a minute or so.”

I wanted to join the card game, for no other reason than to be near Sawyer a little longer, but I was so tired. They built the fire under the awning attached to my tent and I wanted to hug all of them good-night, but hadn’t the nerve. They took such incredible, tender care of me, I almost couldn’t bear the kindness. It seemed too precious, something to which I should certainly not grow accustomed if I had learned anything at all from life.

“I’m turning in,” I said, addressing Malcolm, though I included all of them when I added, “Good-night.”

“G’night, sis,” Boyd said, lighting a smoke, then waving out the match flame.

“’Night,” Malcolm said, and hugged me close.

“Good night,” Angus said. “Take a lantern, if you need.”

Last to Sawyer, my heart thrusting as our gazes clung a hint longer than perhaps appropriate. I swallowed, turning away as he added quietly, “’Night, Lorie.”

I slept nearly immediately, though first I set out my soapstone bear for protection, near my head. It wasn’t until much later that I woke at the sound of quiet voices in the darkness; I lifted to one elbow to listen—Boyd, and Sawyer.

“I’ll stay out, I don’t mind,” Sawyer murmured, as though offhandedly. My heart came awake and pulsed.

There was a pause, as though Boyd was considering a response. I could hardly hear and crawled to the entrance on my scraped knees, keeping utterly silent. Finally Boyd whispered, “I ain’t blind, you know.”