Soul of a Crow (34 page)

“She's paining, doc, I hated to leave her,” Billy responded. He was young, revealing a bearded, sunburned face when he doffed his hat at Malcolm and me. “She's asking after her mama, and her mama's been gone some five years.”

“You return to Letty, we'll be on your heels,” Tilson said, and Billy did not need to be told twice.

“This is the woman you mentioned earlier?” I asked, tying the ribbons of my hat beneath my chin.

“She is, at that. I expect I'll haul you two along,” Tilson said. “Letty will be glad of a woman, Mrs. Davis, an' perhaps you'll assist me, if you've a mind to. Malcolm, bring them cards, son. You'll be setting and waiting a fair piece, I fear, as this is her first babe.”

We left a note for Boyd and then climbed atop Tilson's flatbed wagon, into which he tucked his satchel and his rifle, riding over the prairie and to a neighboring farm, several miles west of town and along the river, a small homestead bordered by pines and with a pen full of pigs. Despite the heat of the day smoke curled from the chimney, as the lone window in the structure was covered with canvas rather than glass, and it would have been dark as evening without the fire. The man who had come to request Tilson's presence met us at the door.

“Billy, leave it propped open, if you would,” Tilson said to him. “I can't see a blessed thing otherwise. And the afternoon is a lovely one.”

Malcolm and I hovered behind Tilson with the uncertainty of strangers; the wedge of daylight allowed into the space by the open door fell upon a slice of dirt floor and the right leg of a low-slung bed, upon which a woman knelt, her bare feet cast in light, the rest of her body in shadow; her pale feet, slim and narrow and lit by the sun, appeared oddly vulnerable, and I wished to protect them, perhaps cover them with a blanket. Smoke from the hearth fire fled out the door, at once freshening the air.

“It's a fine day to welcome a child, ain't it, Letty?” Tilson calmly inquired of the woman, despite her obvious distress. He continued, already moving to her side, “This here is Mrs. Davis, an' she'll assist me. How would that be?”

“That'd be…right fine,” the woman managed to say, in a breathless moan. Her voice was scarcely audible.

“Lorie, come around the side here,” Tilson said, retaining a tranquil confidence that transferred to me; I obeyed, rolling back my sleeves, no longer steeped in hesitancy. It was the first time Tilson had referred to me by my given name; I felt oddly pleased by this informality.

“What can I do?” Malcolm asked earnestly.

“Bless you, boy, but I'd rather you wait out near the crik. Have Billy show you where them trout is biting,” Tilson said. “Keep him busy, won't you, son?”

And Malcolm nodded his understanding.

I joined Tilson at the bedside, my eyes having adjusted to the dimness, and did my best to offer the woman a smile, even as I realized that she was much more girl than woman, hardly appearing old enough to issue forth a child of her own. Her hair lay in a lank braid; her belly was distended unimaginably beyond its usual girth. A pale face round as a gourd lifted to peer at mine before pain doubled her forward. She wore a drooping dress designed to accommodate her girth, rucked now about her hips. The bedding beneath her knees was damp and soiled. She moaned again and remained hunched over her midsection.

“Letty, lay back an' let me see how far along,” Tilson said, and his very demeanor established and maintained a sense of steady calm. He invited, “Hold to Lorie.”

Together we lowered her and then I took her chilled hands, letting her grip as she would, and despite the fragility of her fingers, she grasped with considerable force. Tilson gently raised her skirts, and I was struck by a memory of the night Sawyer found me in Sam Rainey's camp, the way Sawyer had lifted my dirty garments using similar motions, with absolute tenderness and yet an urgency of need to determine the extent of the damage. Letty's knees splayed wide and her hips lifted from the bedding as she emitted a hissing groan, nearly grinding my bones as she clutched.

I tried to read Tilson's face as his big, capable hands roved her belly; he appeared to be peering into the middle distance as he explored the flesh between her thighs in his careful assessment. I was fairly certain that I detected a hint of concern about him, though outwardly he gave little sign, and it was merely a guess upon my part. But then his eyes met mine, and I knew I was not wrong.

He looked back to Letty and said quietly, “Honey, you're right far along, but the babe ain't positioned properly just yet. I'd like for you to get to all fours.”

She nodded roughly, and again we assisted her motions. She breathed heavily as Tilson gripped her hips, easing her into position. He spoke in low murmurs, soothing her. To me, he said, “I can't quite tell if I felt a foot or an elbow, but sure not the little one's head.”

“It…hurts…” she groaned, gasping between breaths, and I put both hands immediately to her back, patting and soothing as well as I could.

“Pull in a deep breath,” Tilson said. “There's a good one, now another…”

From this new angle he reached to cup her belly, his eyes fixed on a single point upon the wall but truly seeing inward, to the child contained within her, a writhing mass of life demanding entry into the world. Letty's position brought to my mind a laboring horse, perhaps uncharitably, but it was the only picture I had upon which to draw; I had witnessed many birthings in Daddy's stable. Letty's heaving ribs and hanging head were akin to what I had seen as a little girl—I almost expected forelegs to emerge from between her parted thighs.

“He's near sideways,” Tilson muttered, gritting his teeth a little, as though in sympathy. He said, “Feel here,” and commandeered my hands, guiding them to the child within her; he was correct in his statement, and a sudden splash of apprehension caught me in the face. He asked, low, “Have you seen a child born?”

“No,” I said. “Only horses.”

“It's much the same,” Tilson acknowledged. “Though just now, we's got a piece of work.” He said to Letty, “Honey, we have to turn the babe. He's pointing the wrong way.”

“Help him…” she begged, rearing upwards as much as she was able, imploring Tilson. “Please…help him…”

“We will, but it'll hurt, an' you must be strong. Stay like this, darlin', as that will ease the pain a little.”

Letty sagged forward, chin to chest, braced upon the bedding and watching her belly upside-down. Her dress had sunk and I carefully eased it up past her hips, determined not to shy away from the task at hand; if Letty could bear the pain, I could certainly find the courage to remain near, and assist as well as I could.

“In my satchel, Lorie, there's strips of linen. Fetch those, set them near, an' stoke that fire, get the kettle boiling. Just there,” and Tilson nodded, while I hurried to do his bidding, glad to be given a task, busying myself. While I worked, Tilson spoke softly to Letty, rubbing her side. Glancing their way, I beheld dark blood seeping from between her legs, creating small rivulets. At the sight I fell completely still, inadvertently clenching my teeth, involuntarily remembering.

Blood, with its unmistakable scent.

Blood that spilled forth with no regard for the life it was stealing.

Letty hissed and her back suddenly arched, and I understood that I could not let the darkness of my memories overwhelm me, not now. I gathered the linens and hurried to the bedside. Letty's lower body was bared and her knees spread wide, her genitals appearing purple and swollen. I said firmly, “Tell me what to do.”

“Set those here, then hold her shoulders, try to keep her still,” Tilson said, and I followed his orders at once. Letty seemed not to hear his words, locked in her own private chamber of pain, but Tilson addressed her, explaining, “Hold as still as you can, darlin', but don't be afraid to yell out.”

Without further ado, he gripped her stomach as one would a large, ripe watermelon, and then he bore down, forcibly attempting to maneuver the child into place.

Letty screamed, harshly, her muscles rigid under my grip. I was baring my teeth and did not realize, shocked and horrified at the noises torn from her, even as I silently begged Tilson to succeed in his endeavor, or to stop.

“She's bleeding so much,” I choked out, unable to remain silent.

“He's shifted,” Tilson said, with an air of purpose, setting free Letty's midsection and putting his hands upon her lower back. He ordered, “You must push, Letty, he's shifted.”

“I…can't…” she moaned.

Blood flowed faster, escalating at the pace of her breath. Though I was doing little but observing, sweat greased my skin and my breathing matched hers; I was fearful she would die, here before our eyes.

“You can,” Tilson encouraged. “You must.”

Letty tried to nod, and she strained hard, sagging and then pushing again, to no avail. She was sobbing now, in between great gulps of air. She gasped, “I…can't…”

“Make a dart of your fingertips, Lorie, and I'll show you what to do,” Tilson said, not to be contradicted. “Quickly now,” and he demonstrated with his own.

I understood even before his explanation.

“She's narrow across the pelvis, an' we must get the babe free,” Tilson said. “It's just what your daddy would do to help birth a foal, you'll recall. I'll press an' you pull, darlin', it's the only way.”

I braced myself at Letty's hips, given over to necessity now, no space in my mind for thoughts, or for any lingering squeamishness. I hesitated only a fraction, my own innards seeming to seize in response, and then slid my fingers into her body. Tight heat, and wetness. Blood to my wrist. I felt the need to apologize profusely, to beg forgiveness of Letty for this repugnant intrusion. But then, in the depths of her, I felt the child, sturdy and firm, and there.

“I feel him!” I heard myself yelp.

“Good, now guide him,” Tilson said, and it was as though we were tussling with a wild animal, taming a creature between us, as he massaged and kneaded while I did my best to tug.

Letty wailed repeatedly, the sound shredding the air.

“C'mon now,” Tilson urged. “Letty, you must push. Push!”

Her entire frame heaved and subsequently expelled my hand. Before my eyes, equal parts alarmed and amazed, the skin between her legs parted further, bulging unfathomably; an oval of wet black hair appeared.

“I see him!” I cried.

“Once more,” Tilson insisted. “Letty, once more.” She gasped and strained again; Tilson said, “There he comes!”

And there it was, indeed, a perfectly round human head emerging from her womb, an entirely new person entering the world.

“Be ready, Lorie!” Tilson said, and just that quickly I curved my palms and received into them a purple-blue creature, madly wriggling. Tilson took a linen cloth and wiped fluid from the baby's eyes and nose, while I wept, whether in relief, shock, or pure exhilaration, I was not entirely sure.

“It's a girl,” I babbled, using my shoulder to swipe at my tears.

A thin, crimped length kept them connected; my eyes followed this cord between mother and child, and then I nearly dropped the infant, so stunned was I by what I saw.

“Dear Lord, it's twins,” Tilson said, noticing this at the same moment. “Letty, you've another babe in you.”

The poor girl seemed beyond sense, ready to collapse, but she delivered the second child, this one a boy, into Tilson's waiting hands.

“You done good, little mother,” Tilson congratulated her, beaming and joyful. “Here's two fine youngsters you've brought into the world.” And then he leaned and bestowed a kiss upon my forehead, his eyes crinkling as he grinned at me, as proud as any daddy. He said, “You done good, too, honey.”

- 23 -

At dinner that
evening, Malcolm related events with enthusiasm.

“Lorie-Lorie near saved that gal's life,” he said. “Ain't that right?”

“Darn right,” Tilson agreed, and I flushed with pleasure. He had complimented me without end, all the way back to Iowa City while I leaned against Malcolm on the wagon, physically depleted but brimming with the pride of a task well done.

“It was such a joy to see her with them, afterwards,” I said. “During, I was terribly frightened, I'll admit.”

“I would never have known. You carried yourself right nobly, an' it's a fine hand you have,” Tilson said. “Small an' strong, just what was required. There's some say a man ain't got a place at the birthing bed, an' I think you proved them folks right this day.”

“Mama used to say that,” Boyd said, well into his third piece of chicken, fried to a perfect golden crisp. His lips were shiny and his eyes downright devilish as he explained, “Mama would say that a man more'n did his part nine months
before
the birthin'.”

Rebecca flushed hotly, hiding a smile by hooking an index finger over her mouth, while everyone else laughed uproariously.

“You mean like we done talked about, back on the trail?” Malcolm asked eagerly. “That is, when a man—”

I kicked his ankle at once. Malcolm knitted his brows in my direction, but obediently discontinued this line of questions.

“Son, it seems someone has taken your education to heart,” Tilson teased the boy. “But your brother's got the time frame about right.” And he winked at Boyd.

“It was good to feel so useful,” I said, in all sincerity.

“Useful you was, indeed,” Tilson said, this time with a wink in my direction. “Indispensable, darlin', an' I thank you.”

Another swell of pride, and capability, bloomed over my soul. I had insisted upon stopping at the jailhouse before returning to the homestead. Clemens, on duty at that hour, was dear and kind enough to unlock the cell, before ambling outside to speak with Malcolm and his uncle. Sawyer led me to the narrow cot where he slept and there settled us. I tucked myself against him and traced my fingers over the healing wound on his temple. He appeared drawn, the skin beneath his eyes darkened with strain.

“Let me look at you,” he whispered. “Let me touch you.”

“You haven't been fed properly,” I worried, gently stroking my thumbs along his cheekbones. “Oh, Sawyer…”

“I am well,” he assured me, touching his forehead to mine, telling me so with eyes and unceasing touch, both. “I promise you. Compared to where I slept as a soldier, this is downright luxurious. Tell me how you spent your day,
mo mhuirnín milis
.”

“I birthed two babies,” I said, clinging tightly to him. The pleasure of him in my arms was so forceful, so immediate, that I felt dizzy with it, as though it was a gift I perhaps did not deserve. One that would be taken from me, forthwith, and I clung all the more tightly.

“Two?” he repeated. “From the same mama?”

I nodded. And then my words came gushing, “It was terrible and beautiful, both at once. I cannot explain better than that. I feared she would die—she sounded as though she might, Sawyer, it was frightful—and there was so much blood. But Tilson needed my help. The girl, Letty was her name, needed my help, and there was no other choice. I helped pull the child from her body. I felt it,
inside
of her. It was a girl, a little girl, and I helped her come into the world. And only seconds later, another head appeared. Her brother. Twins!” Sawyer's gaze was steady, bathing me with the warmth of his admiration, the sweetness of his attention; tears brimmed in my eyes as I continued to the dearest part, “And you know what? Letty named her daughter Mabel Lorissa, after her mama, and after
me
.”

Sawyer grinned, cupping my elbows, gliding his palms up my arms to take my face between them. He whispered, “You are the most amazing woman I've ever had the privilege of knowing.”

I smiled even as tears splashed over my face. I said, “Tilson said I could learn to midwife.”

“For certain you could. Tilson seems a decent fellow,” Sawyer said. “He has been twice to speak with me.”

“He was proud of me,” I whispered. “And being there, with all of the blood…at first I could think of nothing but Deirdre…of when she lost the child in the hallway at Ginny's.” I closed my eyes before continuing. “But then, I set that aside. I knew I had to help, that this time I was
able
to help, when before I could not. With Deirdre, there was nothing I could have done.” It seemed to me as though I had only just stumbled upon acknowledgment of this. I said, gaining momentum, “Perhaps it is foolish, but I feel redeemed somehow, Sawyer.”

“It is not foolish,” he said. “I would that you feel delivered from all that plagues you. Lorie, look at me,” and I did, opening my eyes to the intensity of his. “My wife, you are not at fault. Not for your friend, or Gus, or for me. These things were beyond your control, darlin', and I
would
that you know this. You torture yourself, and I will not have it.”

I wanted so badly to believe what he said—that I was not to blame for the deaths of good people, people I had cared deeply for. God knew I blamed myself—and surely whatever judge I may face after death would blame me. If not entirely for those I had loved, then certainly for causing Jack's death.

Oh God…

There was a knock at the door, and seconds later Tilson entered, doffing his hat and saying, “Good evening, Mr. Davis. Your wife has delivered two children this day.” He approached the cell door, still gaping open, and curled one hand about an iron slat, regarding us with a half-smile.

“As I have just learned,” Sawyer said, and his voice grew slightly deeper with emotion as he said, “I thank you for watching out for Lorie, while I cannot.”

“It is my honor,” Tilson said. “I've grown right fond of her company, I'll admit. I believe you would make a sound apprentice.”

“Thank you,” I whispered. I knew it was futile to consider asking if I could be allowed to remain here, at the jailhouse with Sawyer. Billings would be quite apoplectic, and Clemens had already more than bent the rules for us.

“Sawyer!” And Malcolm darted inside, scurrying past Tilson and throwing his arms around Sawyer. “If Mrs. Rebecca fried up chicken, like I been praying for all day, then I aim to bring you a piece tomorrow.”

Sawyer laughed, low and soft, and freed one arm to hug the boy. He said, “I would be
most
grateful, kid.”

“We must go,” Tilson said, his tone recognizing my reluctance to do so.

Sawyer nodded, crushing both Malcolm and me all the more tightly. I kissed his jaw, stroking his loose hair with both hands.

Into my ear Sawyer whispered, “Whenever you go, it's as though a new piece of me is torn away.”

“It's the same for me,” I said, hurting so badly I did not believe I had the wherewithal to leave him here. “We'll return in the daylight.”

“I'm counting the hours,” he said.

Tilson crossed the meager space and placed a hand upon Sawyer's shoulder. He said gruffly, “You are a fortunate man, Mr. Davis. I hope you know this.”

Only because I could read Sawyer's thoughts so well did I fully understand what crossed his mind just then; standing as he was, Tilson's face was shadowed, his imposing form outlined with light from behind. The way Tilson spoke, his unconsciously paternal gesture, tore at my husband's memory. As plain as though he'd spoken aloud, I sensed Sawyer long for his father, James Davis, gone these many years.

Sawyer said quietly, “That I do know, sir.”

And there was no choice but to leave him alone in the jailhouse.

“Mama was here to help me, both times,” Rebecca was saying, drawing me from thoughts of my husband and back to the dinner table. “She was calm as a summer day, you shall recall that about her, Uncle Edward.”

“It sounded right awful,” Malcolm said. “The screaming, that is. What was you doing to her?”

“Well, it's a painful business all around, son,” Tilson said. “An' in this case, the child, both of them, was positioned wrong. We was fortunate this time. It ain't always so.”

“Boy, you's watched horses give birth,” Boyd added. His elbows were on the table again, forearms surrounding his plate, as though to guard against anyone intending to separate him from Rebecca's delectable cooking. He concluded, “It's much the same process.”

Malcolm's mouth twisted into a knot, his brows beetling, as he surely pictured just such a thing.

“Twins,” I said again, still marveling at what I had witnessed. “When the second child appeared, I thought perhaps I was having a vision.”

“It ain't always easy to tell there's two,” Tilson said. “I've been surprised by a second babe once or twice before. I've even heard tell of three at once, but I've never seen such in my lifetime.”

“A woman ain't got but two breasts,” Malcolm said, with real wonder, as though the rest of us had no notion of this anatomical truth. “How could she feed three babes at once?”

“Oh, dear
Lord
,” Boyd muttered, amidst more hilarity, Tilson tipping back in his chair with wholehearted merriment; little Nathaniel clapped one hand over his mouth in the manner of someone who knows he is in for trouble, blue eyes shining with delight in the mischief. Boyd said, “Mama would skin me alive to hear the way you talk, boy. I ain't taught you
nothin
'.”

“Perhaps I oughtn't to allow you a piece of plum cake,” Rebecca said, her eyes lighting upon Malcolm with an air of affectionate teasing.

“Plum cake?” Boyd repeated. “Fried chicken
and
plum cake? Woman, you
are
an angel.”

“Aw, please, Mrs. Rebecca?” Malcolm begged, not seeming to notice how Boyd's words had affected her. He promised, “I swear I won't mention breasts no more.”

Tilson said somberly, “You might kick yourself later in life for swearing such a thing, young Malcolm.”

Later I helped Rebecca with the dinner dishes, drying as she washed. The door was propped open to the fine summer evening, and we listened to Malcolm and Boyd playing with the little boys, while Tilson settled into a low-slung canvas chair and smoked his pipe.

“It is so fine to have a woman here, with whom to converse,” Rebecca said. “I cannot tell you how much, Lorie. I would beg you to remain here, for always.”

“I wish we could have met under better circumstances, but I am so glad to know you,” I said, scraping at a stray strand of hair with my thumb, damp from the dishwater. “You are kindness itself, and a true kindred spirit.”

“Uncle Edward is most adamant that he will convince you to settle near here,” she said, with a subtle air of hope. “He has confessed as such to me this very day. He has taken a keen liking to all of you. Malcolm reminds him greatly of his own boys. I never met my cousins, and of course now it is too late, unless Blythe ever ventures north. I wish he would, for Uncle Edward's sake. There has been not a word from the man in nearly three years. How the world has changed since the War.”

“I believe Boyd could be convinced if not for Jacob and Hannah. They are expecting us. We'll be long overdue by the time we arrive.”

“I understand,” Rebecca said. Her eyes flickered outside, only briefly, but I knew she sought Boyd. She acknowledged quietly, “He is set on his course.”

For the first time, I thought,
Perhaps we could settle near this place
. But I left the words unspoken, for now.

“Boyd spoke with Yancy this morning,” I said instead, my eyes also roving to the dooryard. “Yancy is fearsomely angry at this turn of events. It is only Marshal Quade preventing him from moving forward with his plan to hang Sawyer. And of Zeb, no one has heard a word.”

Rebecca knew my terror of this man, as I had told her everything that occurred while in his and Yancy's company. She said, “Perhaps he has given up and returned to his homestead.”

I whispered, “I wish I could believe so.”

Rebecca said, “Leverett will keep his word. He is a stubborn man, and an honorable one.”

I was more than a little curious to know more, but would not relent to my impulse to beg her for additional information; as much as we had spoken in the past two days, she had confessed nothing of her feelings for, or relationship with, Marshal Leverett Quade.

“Lorie! Mrs. Rebecca! Come along!” Malcolm called from outside, waving both arms at us. He ran to the open door and caught the edges of the frame, on either side. He enthused, “There's fireflies!”

Rebecca and I joined them, each of us wrapping into our shawls. I leaned over the top rung of the corral and Whistler came to me; I entwined her mane around my fingers and found room to delight in the sight before my eyes. The prairie surrounding the homestead teemed with the golden-green sparks of lightning bugs, flickering and signaling to one another, seeming thousands strong.

“July is their month,” Rebecca said, lifting Nathaniel into her arms. He snuggled his cheek upon her and popped a thumb into his mouth. She sighed, “What a marvelous sight.”

Malcolm and Cort darted like moths across the ditch to the far side of the road, attempting to catch one of the tiny creatures, and Rebecca walked slowly in their direction, murmuring to her youngest.

Tilson called from his chair, “Rain before morning, that's what they's telling us.”

Boyd joined me at the corral, hooking his arms over the topmost beam. He said softly, “Whistler-girl,” and scratched her jaw. “You's wondering after Sawyer, ain't you, girl?” He scratched beneath her jaws and said, “I wrote Jacob that we been delayed, but I pray we'll be on the trail before he gets word back.”