Heart of a Dove (13 page)

“Gus,” he reminded me, still with a smile hovering about his lips.

Malcolm jogged up to us then, his hat flapping against his back like a pair of unruly wings. “Gus, might’n we get us a lick of candy?”

“We may at that,” Angus promised. “But first we need ready-made clothes, for the both of you.”

The interior of the dry-goods store was clean and filled with a dizzying array of scents. Muslin, linen, lavender, coffee beans, cinnamon, hair tonic and a lemony tang that was perhaps sweeping compound. The clerk, a diminutive man with a full mustache, was far too busy helping other customers to pay us much heed. My eyes swept the variety of items, from the racks upon racks of bolts of material, rows of hair ribbons, shelves of flour sacks and tins of baking powder, gleaming glass containers whose round bellies were loaded with tempting candies. Barrels lined the wall beyond the counter. There were pewter jugs there as well, and a prominent wooden sign warned in bold black letters: NO TOBACCO TO BE SPIT ON THE PREMISIS! Tobacco was, however, available for sale; I could smell it. Malcolm turned in a small circle as though uncertain where to start looking, while Angus moved with certainty to a rack of ready-made garments.

By mid-afternoon, Angus had purchased for me two new blouses, both of buttery-cream linen, two new skirts with petticoats, a fringed shawl of indigo blue, a rain poncho, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. He would have continued spending his money, had I not insisted he cease. Malcolm too possessed a new pair of pants and a long wooden stick, the top third of which was coated with crystallized sugar the shade of saffron, as was likewise his tongue. Though he offered me many a lick, I politely refrained. Angus had also purchased a pair of scissors, now tucked somewhere in the back of the crowded wagon. These tasks complete, he said, “Malcolm, Lorie, I will keep the horses and the wagon company while the two of you visit the bathhouse.”

So saying, the boy and I traversed the boardwalk clutching the bath tokens Angus had purchased earlier. It was far too easy to pretend, as I strolled along with Malcolm, that I was his doting elder sister, that the last few years of my life had never happened, that I was as pure and virginal and worthy as I’d been at Malcolm’s own age. He skipped and caught my hand in his, swinging our joined hands between us.

“See there? That’s the bathhouse,” he said, using his free hand to point at the building just beyond an empty alley. My heart throbbed as I looked where he was pointing, not because of the bathhouse, but instead its proximity to the saloons. Of course. Most houses required a bath prior to entry; I couldn’t bear to think about those that did not. At this time of day, just past the noon hour, activity through the swinging doors was negligible. I knew all too well what would begin to occur within a few hours: girls would start parading the upper balconies, casting their eyes over the street. Drinks would begin flowing, piano music tinkling and cards fanned over green-felt tabletops. Row upon row of clotheslines linked the bathhouse with the next-door saloon; upon these, towels, petticoats and corsets hung like skinned animals. I thought, uncomfortably, of the alley beside Hossiter’s and turned resolutely away.

“I’ll meet you in an hour,” Malcolm told me as our tokens were taken.

“An hour,” I promised, and followed a slim young girl to my bath.

The giant tin tubs were arranged in rows; privacy was afforded as each tub sat within its own three-sided cubby. A hanging curtain was used to close the space entirely. I sank into the warm water up to my chin and couldn’t help but sigh at the luxury, simple though it was. The bathhouse was humid and pleasant, stirring with the quiet sounds of other bathers. I inhaled the pungent scent of the damp pine floor, letting my face sink to the tip of my nose, my entire body submerged deliciously. For long moments I almost dozed, my thoughts drifting as cottonseed on a light breeze, touching down in no particular place. My hair floated about my torso like lake weed, becoming shades darker as it soaked.

Later, as the water cooled, I let my gaze drift along the distorted view of my nakedness, rippling as I observed it from above. My skin appeared fragile and milk-pale, except for my wrists and hands, which had darkened a touch from the past two days in the sun. My legs were bent at the knee, my belly smooth, my breasts full but not sore; I had been wary, waiting for any telltale signs of having been caught. More than one man had commented on the beauty of my breasts, yet another commodity I regarded with dispassion. I cupped them now within my own palms and recalled that there had been a time, after my horrific first encounter with Buckley Hill, who had bid for my virginity, when I had been so reluctant to let anyone touch them, to take my nipples into their mouths, that I’d had to grit my teeth together to keep from outright screaming. But I’d learned to allow it.

I slid my palms gently along my ribcage, yet unable to believe that my body could be mine alone again, as it had been when I was a girl. Perhaps in time, as Angus had said. Externally I remained virtually unscathed, though within I imagined the damage as something brutal and ugly, far less simple to heal. I pressed both palms to my belly and then let my fingertips move lower, through the hair that formed a triangle on my pelvis, and then to the soft folds of skin between my legs. Strange, that the center of a woman’s body could be responsible for such myriad fixations, from pleasure to pain, depravity and obsession, control and power and the exchange of money. When all was said and done, it was simply a small, tight tunnel into which I could scarcely slip my index finger. Stranger that something the size of a man’s cock could likewise fit; I could hardly fathom a baby’s head in the space.

I ducked fully under for a moment then, closing my eyes, letting the liquid fill my ears and amplify the sound of my heart, which presumably did still exist. I stayed under until my lungs were burning with need for air; a slice of my mind considered remaining submerged. But in the end I recalled my resolve to avoid being a coward and came up with a gasp, sending arcs of droplets flying. I washed in a hurry after that, uncertain how much time had passed as I dallied in the water. There was no window, so I could not gauge the time of day by the quality of the sunlight. On a cane chair near the tub was placed a large gray towel, a basin containing a cake of soft yellow soap, and one of my new outfits. My blue muslin was on the floor, damp and putrid; I would wash it within an inch of itself upon returning to camp. I soaped my hair last, using my fingernails against my scalp. I was still scrubbing when the girl who had led me to the tub upon my arrival poked her head behind the curtain and inquired, “Are you ready for the rinse, miss?”

I was, and she poured a bucket of clean water over my head as I imagined I was being symbolically baptized, as ludicrous a notion as I knew it was. The water rushing over my head was forever drowning Lila, the one I’d been.

Using the mirror mounted to the wall, I brushed out my hair and braided its length after I’d dried and dressed, before twisting the braid upon the back of my head and pinning it in place. I left the towel on the chair before collecting my things and hurried outside to find that perhaps no more than an hour had slipped away. The pale-blue sky was awash with great sweeps of thin white clouds as I made my way down the boardwalk to where I knew Angus was waiting, looking down just enough to admire the color of my new skirt, an indigo-blue broadcloth. When Malcolm came running from behind and grabbed my arm, I shrieked and then laughed; dammit, I loved the kid already. No use denying it, no matter that I’d scarce known him forty-eight hours. A part of it surely stemmed from my aching desire for family, but I knew in that moment that I just plain loved him.

“You’re clean!” I observed. “Is it you?”

His dark brown eyes swept over me from hair to hem and he blinked, saying, “Tarnation but you’re a pretty sight, Lorie.”

“Thank you, sweet boy,” I said, almost happily, startled to hear the note of it in my voice. “But is this the Malcolm Carter I met two days past? I don’t see any dirt, or any bare feet.”

He laughed heartily and appropriated my arm, saying, “C’mon, my belly thinks my mouth’s been sewed shut!”

Upon drawing within sight of the wagon I saw not only Angus, but Boyd and Sawyer. The swell of my gaiety diminished instantly and I tried without seeming obvious to slow our approach. Boyd was astride Fortune, leaning over the saddle horn with wrists casually crossed, one boot propped against the wagon as he and Angus chatted. Sawyer was also mounted, Whistler prancing a little as though restless, her dark, intelligent eyes watchful of the crowd. She caught sight of us first and tossed her head, nickering as though in greeting; less than a second later Sawyer was looking in the same direction.

Blood seemed to be spattering freely inside my body, as though released from the various vessels and channels meant to restrain it as I studied Sawyer. He likewise watched us, still and silent, his hat in place and shadowing his eyes. Didn’t he ever think of smiling? Or relaxing his shoulders? Either he did not or it was because of me, and both possibilities were daunting. I couldn’t discern if I outright disliked him or was actually slightly afraid of him, perhaps both.

Malcolm harbored no such unease and pulled me along in his wake, calling, “Boyd, you best be ready to play the fiddle this evening!”

Boyd turned on his saddle to reply, “If it ain’t the little sweet-talker himself, shiny as a lake trout.”

Angus tipped his hat brim and added, “Afternoon, you two.”

Sawyer remained silent.

“Afternoon,” Malcolm chirped in response. “You two’re back hours early.”

“Only needed a piece of equipment,” Boyd said, dark eyes twinkling at his little brother. “Where’d you think we were?”

Malcolm let this remark slide, releasing my arm and galloping to his horse. He blew on Aces’ nose, cupping it and announcing, “I’m riding back, that’s what. Sorry, Lorie, but it’s been days now since I’ve had a proper ride on my boy.”

Angus told Malcolm, “I’ll mind the wagon this time.”

Malcolm whooped and moved to unhitch his horse from the wagon. Moments later he climbed atop him with no saddle and exhibited as much grace as any of the men upon horseback. Boyd let his foot off the side and back into his stirrup, and Whistler, at some unspoken command from Sawyer, wheeled around and headed south, towards camp. Malcolm nudged Aces’ flanks and cantered directly after Whistler, calling over his shoulder, voice cracking with excitement and challenge, “Last one back washes the breakfast dishes!”

Boyd shook his head and laughed; he looked away from the retreating figures to tell me politely, “Miss Blake, you’re so pretty you near hurt my eyes.”

I was somewhat startled to hear myself respond, “I believe both of you Carters are sweet talkers,” teasing him.

He laughed even more, tipping his hat brim and giving me a friendly wink before taking off after his brother and Sawyer.

“Shall we?” Angus asked after having hitched Admiral alongside Juniper.

“Yes, and thank you again for today,” I told him sincerely, joining him at the wagon bed to find my hat, which I secured into place with the green ribbon tied around the crown. It was the green of the tart pie apples that Mama used to favor, and I thought of her as I knotted its length beneath my chin.

“You are quite welcome,” he said, helping me up to the wagon seat before climbing after. “And the sunlight agrees with you, I’d say.”

Once the town was behind us, I felt better. Angus sat with forearms on thighs, just as Malcolm had all the previous day. The afternoon stretched all around us, pleasant and warm. Far ahead on the road, Malcolm, Boyd and Sawyer were playing at something, running their mounts in wide circles and then away from one another. Angus watched them, too, and then said, “It does my heart a good turn to see them having fun. Lord knows there hasn’t been much opportunity in the past years. I knew Malcolm would take to you. His mama, Clairee, did love to spoil him. He was her baby.”

“I could guess as much,” I said softly. “It isn’t difficult to see he was loved. And now they’re gone. It’s such a shame.” A shiver darted along my spine and my hands moved almost unconsciously to gather closer the shawl I wasn’t wearing. Realizing this, they fluttered to my lap.

“It is a shame greater than any I’ve ever known, that is indeed true,” Angus said, and his voice seemed far away. I looked away from the horses, over to him. He was leaning forward, hat in place; I wasn’t able to see his eyes, though I sensed their expression was wistful, reflective.

I let the wagon carry us a few paces farther down the road before I asked softly, “What of your family?”

He sighed, releasing the reins with one hand to adjust his hat. At last he said, “My own folks had died before the War broke out, before we’d signed on in all our glory with the Confederacy. I was no young man, but I believed in the Cause. I believed in it with my whole heart back then. We all did. I just happened to live to see its failure. I served in the Army of Virginia, at the first, with Lee. That’s where I met your father. The boys signed on a year later, when they were old enough, with the Army of Tennessee. Boyd, Sawyer, their brothers, all just boys back then, and robbed of it now. That’s why I could stay no longer in Tennessee, though it is the place of my birth, my youth. I need someplace new, unsettled yet, with no memories.” He sighed again, barely perceptible, and continued, “My wife, my Grace, died while I was off soldiering. I will never forgive myself for that.”

I had wondered about the possibility of a wife; he was of an age, and any woman would count her blessings to be wed to such a kind, decent man.

“How long had you been married?” I asked, still looking his way.

“Near to five years by the time I went to War, in ’sixty-one. I courted her for a long time before then, and we’d known one another since our childhood.” His voice was tinged with nostalgia. He went on, “She told me the summer we were nine years old that one day I’d be her husband.”

My heart tightened in sympathy at the blending of affection and pain in his voice. Of course she had been beautiful, and surely kind and winsome. I could very nearly picture her, and I wanted to ask how she had passed, though it would be unutterably rude; I’d spoken the word “how” before I could stop myself. I stuttered to a halt, embarrassed.