Heart of a Dove (22 page)

Sawyer’s shoulders relaxed a hair; my heart was still dashing my chest. Malcolm scurried to get a gander, pausing to clasp my elbow and haul me along.

“Lorie, look-see!” he enthused, and I lifted my skirt to keep up with him. He paused just past the wagons, where the prairie opened out, seemingly endlessly. Evening had descended, the sky pitch-black above our heads, seeping into an indigo-blue with a faint yellow stripe at the extreme edge of the western horizon. Among the tall grasses, what were surely hundreds upon hundreds of fireflies flickered and sparked and swirled. It was almost as though we were no longer upon the earth but instead some magical and otherworldly place, and I drew a delighted breath, clutching Malcolm’s arm and absorbing the sight greedily, unwilling to blink. Their little lights were intermittently green and golden.

“Look at them bugs,” the eldest girl, Annabel, whispered.

“It’s like magic,” Malcolm whispered, his voice reverent, echoing my thoughts.

“Them things surely ain’t bugs,” said one of the younger children.

“They surely are,” Malcolm informed.

“But their behinds glow,” she protested.

“Don’t you wish yours did?” joked Cole, prompting Malcolm’s laughter.

I felt a flash in my gut as they giggled and teased, a radiance that flared unexpectedly, filling me with outright joy. It wasn’t their words, but more a sense of the entire scene sprawled before me, the evening on the prairie and the moment in time that found me here. I let the sensation permeate my senses, and as I had somehow known he would, Sawyer joined us, moving to my left side, near but not touching. I was so buoyed by the feeling of rightness, so utterly safe, protected between him and Malcolm.

“Would you look at that,” Sawyer murmured.

I longed to tuck my hand around his arm, but I didn’t dare.

Behind us, at the fire, Boyd and Henry skipped through a few notes on their instruments and I shivered, again with delight.

“Are you cold?” Sawyer asked me softly, his eyes moving to me at once. I thought of how he’d wrapped the blanket about me, early this very morning.

I looked up at him and again smiled with all of my heart. As improbable as it was, I said, “No, not at all. Just happy.”

Later I was to think back to my comment, made whole-heartedly, and wonder if because I dared to speak it aloud, dared to defy fortune enough to feel such a thing, let alone name it…

“C’mon, you-all, let’s listen!” Malcolm whooped, spinning around, tugging me along.

“Kid, you can’t drag Lorie like that,” Sawyer reprimanded, carefully appropriating my arm from the boy’s grip.

Oh how I loved hearing my name on his lips.

As though uncertain if it was proper, Sawyer removed his hand from my elbow, though he touched me gently on the back to lead me forward, to the fire, the children flowing in our wake. We had hardly sat when Malcolm flew to me and begged to dance. Una was clapping along, her youngest on her lap, as Boyd and Henry fiddled a reel. The girls clutched hands and moved beyond the chairs, to twirl wildly.

“
Pleeeeeease
, Lorie,” Malcolm begged. “I been practicing.”

“All right,” I agreed, though I hated to move from my chair and therefore away from Sawyer.

Malcolm led me amongst the children, his face a picture of concentration. He held out his right hand and took my left and then led us through the three-step rhythm. He was trying so hard not to step on my toes that his eyes nearly crossed. When Angus cut in on him, I floundered, my laughter dying away.

Angus asked politely, “Lorie, may I simply show Malcolm how it’s done? I can’t bear to watch any longer, I must intervene.”

I smiled at him then, relief spreading over me. Una set aside her youngest and joined us too, her eyes sparkling in the fire’s light. She said, “Young fellow, allow me,” and held out her hands to Malcolm. He grinned and accepted Una’s offer, as Angus took me into his own arms, turning to request, “A waltz, gentlemen, if you would.”

Angus said to Malcolm, “You must lead your lady around the floor, but with grace, son, with smooth motions.” So saying, he nodded at me, his gray eyes warm and nearer to mine than they’d been since that hour in my room, when he’d kissed me and pressed me back upon my bed. I gulped at this unwelcome and visceral reminder of my previous life.

“Here, Malcolm, like this,” Una instructed, guiding him. Her daughters were watching with obvious amusement, standing with their hands cupped at their lips, giggling.

Angus was a good dancer. He led me over the uneven ground with grace, and I found to my relief that I wasn’t uncomfortable at being in his arms; I trusted him and, if truth be known, I cared greatly for him. If there was a hint of something else in his eyes, buried deeply, I must pretend that I did not notice, not any longer. But as we danced I unwittingly recalled stepping from my whore’s costume, letting down my hair with the calculated movements of practiced seduction. I hated the falsity, the insincerity of that, of Lila, despised that she would always remain a part of who I once was.

And Angus had spilled his seed within me and I’d not used the potash.

You will bleed soon, Lorie, you will.

When the waltz was through, Boyd set his fiddle on his chair and asked, “Sis, would you care to dance?”

His dark eyes were merry as he swept me into his arms, leaving Henry to fiddle solo. Angus danced with Una, while Boyd twirled and spun me and Malcolm yelped, “My turn, my turn!”

I was laughing as Malcolm claimed me, my eyes flashing over to Sawyer, who sat with his arms folded and a smile on his lips, watching me steadily.

Come dance with me, please, come dance with me
, I begged him silently.

But he remained near the fire. I tugged free of Malcolm, who next offered his hand to Annabel Spicer, and slipped back onto my chair, just to be close to Sawyer.

“Don’t you dance?” I asked him, perching as near to his chair as I could while still remaining upon my own.

“Not much,” he admitted, his eyes caressing mine, and I felt a glowing warmth, as though too near the fire. He reached suddenly and plucked something from my shoulder, startling me, before I realized he was withdrawing a firefly. He held it in his cupped hand, his strong hand with its broad palm and long fingers, where the insect crawled and then flashed its cold green light. I bent closer and curled both my palms around his, creating more darkness to showcase its glow. Our heads nearly bumped looking down at the little creature, flickering rapidly now, as though frightened. I let the sides of my hands rest lightly against his, a flame licking along my skin where we touched.

Sawyer said softly, “We’ve scared it.”

I looked up and his eyes were so close I could have counted his lashes.

This must stop, Lorie, this must stop right now
.

But, God help me, I didn’t want it to stop. For so long I had been unable to feel, to allow myself that luxury. Feelings were contrary to survival in a whorehouse. Every action I had made for years had been for a specific pre-determined purpose, or else was mechanical, wooden. I studied his eyes, which held fast to mine, and could hardly breathe. I thought of his full name, which I had learned only this afternoon.

Sawyer James Davis.

I dropped my eyes to our hands as my blood spilled and rushed like a waterfall, roaring in my ears. The firefly spread its wings in the next instant and flew away, leaving me no excuse to continue touching his hand. I sat upon my own chair and forced myself to watch the dancing, where Boyd was now twirling with both Spicer girls, Malcolm with Una, while Angus stood behind him, directing the boy’s movements.

“Lorie, look there,” Sawyer said, gently nudging my arm, and pointed to the eastern horizon, where a full moon the size of a wagon wheel was just rising. It was luminous in the heavens, creamy white and solid, as though it could be plucked with little effort from the sky and held as a round weight in one’s hands. He went on, softly, “When I was off soldiering, I would look up at the moon as often as I could, and remind myself that there was still a whole world out there where there was no War, no killing. It made me feel like I was still a human, still whole. I can’t tell you what it means to watch it rise now, when I’m not sick with fear that I might die before I would see it full again.”

My heart ached horribly at even the thought of him in harm’s way, even the memory of it. I said, “It’s beautiful tonight. I used to watch it rise from the window in my room at Ginny’s. Sometimes I felt comforted by it and sometimes it seemed sinister, by turns. But at least it was constant. Sometimes just before dawn I’d sit with another girl who worked there, on the upper balcony, and we’d watch it set and listen to the coyotes.”

He looked at me as he said, “I have been thinking all afternoon about what you told me today.”

The music was sweet in the background, the notes of it seeming to rise up and then fall over us, dusting our hair and shoulders. He went on, “This other girl, she was your friend?”

I whispered, “She was.”

I couldn’t bear to talk long about her.

Sawyer said then, “The other night, I dreamed that you were in danger. I woke, knowing it.”

I stared at him, wordless.

The music had stopped, though everyone was still laughing and chattering, Boyd and Malcolm heading our way, and we were forced to look apart. With fond farewells and well wishes to the Spicers, we headed for camp shortly thereafter, Angus driving the wagon this time, with Malcolm and me leaning on each other, Malcolm half-asleep. The moon continued to rise over our heads as we lumbered through the darkness, brilliant enough to cast shadows. Sawyer and Boyd rode close to the wagon, Boyd in a boisterous mood, howling at the moon after we heard coyotes in the distance. I could hardly remove my eyes from Sawyer, hearing his words again; I had been right, there was a connection that flowed between us, inexplicably. I couldn’t explain or justify its existence, I only knew that it bound us.

At camp, the men watered the horses while I lit two of our lanterns. It was late and there was no excuse to linger, though I wanted to see Sawyer, be close by him, at least once more before I went to bed. I knew it wasn’t proper. I was still a former whore and I would be, always. I walked carefully around my tent to watch the four of them at the riverbank, Whistler so easy to spot with her paint markings gleaming in the moonlight. I imagined riding her today, the gift of that, and folded my hands and brought them up to my chin. When I could linger no longer, I slipped into my tent with a lantern, checked the bedding for snakes or other undesirable creatures, and then blew out the candle and undressed.

I lay awake, sensitized and terribly restless; the bright moonlight spilled whitely over the canvas walls, adding to my agitation. I listened intently as the horses were tethered, the men talking quietly as they came back to camp, though within minutes it was silent. And then at the entrance to my tent I heard someone settling in as though to sleep, and my heart seized within me; before I knew what I was doing I crawled on hands and knees to within inches of the opening. A second later I nearly jumped from my skin when Angus said softly, “Lorie, are you awake?”

I took a moment to answer, disappointment weighting me as I crept back to my bedding. Once there I whispered, “I am.”

“I’ll be out here, so you needn’t worry,” he told me, low, and my heart ached again at their collective willingness to do so. Dear Angus, who had been displaced from his tent.

I said softly, “Gus, I’m not afraid. You needn’t sleep outside, I feel terrible.”

“No, we’ve decided. If there was room enough, you could sleep in the wagon, as you’d be less exposed there. But this will suffice for now.”

“Thank you, Gus,” I told him, and again knew that I would never be able to thank him enough; words were paltry, pitiful offerings, at the least. “Good-night.”

“Good-night Lorie,” he whispered, and I curled around myself on the bedding and thought of Sawyer, relentlessly.

- 14 -

I dreamed that night, of the red Tennessee road, which I knew well. I was barefoot and my hair loose, though this time I walked with certainty, faster and faster, until I lifted my skirt above my knees and ran, aching with desperation to get around the bend in the road, though it appeared much farther away than I recalled. I inhaled raggedly, with breaths that clogged my throat, but as I came around its curve at the last, gladness and relief overwhelmed me, heating my blood.

“You’re here,” I cried joyously, and flew to him.

“Lorie,” he said, his deep voice that echoed within me, a voice I had always known, would always know, anywhere. He moved swiftly to me, reaching to collect me against his chest, where I wanted to be more than I’d ever longed for anything, even my own life. Whistler was behind him, waiting patiently, watching us with her tail swishing.

But just as I would have been in his arms my fingers touched a cold windowpane, forcibly halting my forward motion. Sawyer reached it at the same instant and pressed his hands to it, shouting my name, though I could no longer hear his voice. He slammed his fists violently against the glass, and I clawed at it, raking my nails until they came loose from my fingers. I sobbed then, scrabbling through mounds of blood-smeared dead leaves on the ground, searching for a branch to smash against the window, anything that I could use to shatter the smooth, cold hardness.

“
No, please no
,” I pleaded as I saw Sawyer’s hands also covered in blood.

And I woke with a gasp, twisting with both fists at the blanket covering my body.

I sat slowly, as the images in my dream ebbed maddeningly away, leaving nothing more tangible than a chill in my gut. I pressed the base of my palms against my eyes for a moment, collecting myself, picturing Sawyer as I had been picturing him last night before sleep claimed me. Just the thought of him filled me with wonder and anticipation, casting away most of my uneasiness over the nightmare. I realized that I’d not set out my soapstone bear, Boyd’s gift, and determined that I would do so tonight.

I could hear Angus up and about outside in the very early morning, the stirrings of Malcolm and Boyd in their tent. I brushed my hair, braided it, dressed and then packed my valise full; we would be moving on today. I slipped out of my tent and walked down the river, to the fishing hole. The river gurgled cheerfully in the silvered light of dawn, and I studied the spot beneath the willow where I had talked with Sawyer yesterday, instead of fishing. He was right; talking had been much better. Incredibly better, and my cheeks grew warm at just the memory of it, and of last night.

I smiled, unable to help it, closing my eyes and seeing nothing but his. All of the things he had shared with me yesterday had been in my mind as I’d tossed fitfully on my bedding last night, the way he blamed himself for surviving the battle at Murfreesboro that had taken his brothers, how he’d watched the moon at night as a soldier. I imagined his golden hair appearing silver under that celestial light, his beautiful, somber eyes lifted to the sky as he faced an unknown future. I thought of his name, wanting to speak it aloud.

Sawyer James Davis
.

His initials, carved into the hilt of his knife. The last of his family, just as I was the last of mine. How he had stayed alive for his horse, for Whistler, when he had no one else. The very thought of his words created an ache within me and I was not entirely sure I would be able to restrain my need to climb immediately up the river bank, crawl directly into his tent and wrap my arms around him. I wanted to press my face to his neck. I wanted to feel his arms around me.

Lorie, stop this.

I could hear increasing activity in our camp as the men and Malcolm tore it down, and now that I was able to help, I had no excuse to be waited upon. I lifted my hem and hurried back, spying Malcolm first. He caught sight of me as I came up from the river, from where he was collapsing his and Boyd’s tent, and called, “Lorie, take that skirt off!”

I paused at the oddity of such a statement, eyebrows knitting as I figured I’d misunderstood him. Sawyer was laughing then, just beyond Malcolm from the sound of it, and my feet flew over the grass; I came around my tent to see Sawyer collecting the wooden poles from the ground where Malcolm had thrown them. I halted abruptly and every inch of my skin heated as Sawyer smiled just for me, straightening to his full height with the heavy armload. His hair was loose, his shirt unbuttoned two past the collar and with the sleeves rolled back over his forearms; he’d not yet shaved. He looked so good that I couldn’t draw so much as a shallow breath.

He clarified, “What the kid means is that—”

Malcolm leaped in with an explanation before Sawyer could finish, saying, “You need to put on my pants!”

I tore my eyes from Sawyer and regarded the boy in surprise, asking, “Why’s that?”

“Since you’re gonna ride Aces today, that’s why,” Malcolm said, his dark eyes brimming with excitement. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate Sawyer, adding, “It was his idea.”

My eyes flashed back to Sawyer’s at this pronouncement to find his so warm on mine that my bare toes curled against the grass, my blood flared. He said, “I thought you might enjoy riding for a spell. The kid was kind enough to lend his horse.”

“Until I get too lonesome for you on the wagon, that is!” Malcolm said, and my heart melted all over the ground. I was thrilled at the unexpected prospect of spending the morning riding and caught Malcolm’s upper arm to hold him still long enough to kiss his cheek.

“Aw, Lorie,” he said gruffly, embarrassed but pleased.

“This is such a wonderful gift,” I told them sincerely, and Sawyer’s smile widened, lifting the right side of his mouth higher than the left, in a lopsided, teasing grin.

His eyes danced as he looked towards Malcolm, who was blushing red as an August tomato, then back to me, before commenting, “That hardly seems fair.”

My heart throbbed fiercely, but Boyd and Angus joined us, Boyd laughing about something Gus was saying, a smoke caught in the corner of mouth. I stared at Sawyer for one last moment, before turning my flustered attention to Malcolm, who had retrieved a pair of his trousers and a shirt and pitched them to me.

“Morning, sis!” Boyd joked, ruffling my hair as he walked past en route to the coffee pot. “Fortune is taking a turn pulling the wagon today, as so you can ride.”

“Though I’d feel much better about the entire thing if you wore your boots,” Angus added, winking at me.

“I will,” I assured him, smiling. “Excuse me.”

I ducked into my tent, which was still erect, though empty of all belongings; only the bare ground beneath my feet. I hurried to tie the laces and then redressed in Malcolm’s clothes, rolling my skirt into a bundle. I ducked back out and then helped Malcolm tear down my tent as the men loaded the last of our gear. It was so much blessed easier to move about in trousers, and I found myself wondering if I could possibly get away with wearing them all of the time. I tucked Malcolm’s shirt into the waistband, as though I was indeed playing dress-up.

I managed to gulp a cup of lukewarm coffee before Boyd kicked dirt over the fire and then doused it with a pan of water. We’d be eating on the move this morning. I jogged to the wagon and then climbed, with the delightful freedom afforded by pants, onto the tailgate and leaned into the oval-shaped opening in the canvas to stash my skirt and root about for my hat. I had forgotten to set it aside this morning, and no doubt Malcolm had smashed it beneath something again. I located it just as I heard Malcolm approaching with his horse in tow. I jumped down as he brought Aces over to me; Sawyer was already mounted, while Angus did a last walk-through to make certain we’d left nothing behind.

“He’s ready to run, Lorie, and he’s feisty sometimes. You gotta be firm with him,” Malcolm explained importantly.

I listened to his numerous instructions without smiling, though it was difficult, tying the green bow to my hat beneath my chin.

“You need help up?” he finally asked. “An’ here, use my leather gloves, or else your hands’ll get all callused.”

“No, I’ve got it,” I assured him, taking both the reins and the gloves he offered; they were sizes too big, but the leather was soft and formed to my hands as I curled my fingers inward experimentally.

“Aw right,” Malcolm said, moving to cup Aces’ nose and blowing on it, nuzzling his horse. “You be good to Lorie, no running away.”

I patted the chestnut’s sleek brown neck; Aces was tall and high-stepping, and regarded me intently with his left eye as I said, “Hi, boy, hello there,” and though he gave a low, uncertain whinny as my boot slid into the stirrup, he stood politely still as I climbed atop his back. The stirrups were the correct length, as Malcolm and I were almost of a height. Malcolm kissed Aces’ nose and then clambered aboard the wagon. Angus, leading Admiral, walked to my left side and smiled up at me from beneath his hat brim.

“Again, I’d say the sunlight agrees with you,” he said, before neatly mounting his own horse. “Let’s ride!”

The wagon lumbered out slowly, Boyd driving, Malcolm peering behind at me. I let Aces walk for a spell, keeping pace behind the wagon as I adjusted to his gait. Angus took Admiral ahead and to the right, and while Sawyer usually ranged far in advance, this morning he lagged with me as we left the river behind, Whistler nearly prancing in her desire to move faster. At first I couldn’t gather the courage to look over at him, though he was mere feet from my stirrup, but from the corner of my left eye I observed how smoothly he rode, graceful and effortless, his hips relaxed in the saddle; by now I knew that his shoulders were never so, not while riding. Too much of a soldier in him still, for that. His hat, dark brown with black ties tipped in silver, was in place, shading his eyes. He held her reins loosely in his right hand, his left lying flat against his thigh. His hair was now tied back, his shirt yet unbuttoned with sleeves rolled back, exposing his lean forearms, corded with muscle and brown from the sun.

“Who taught you to ride?” he asked me. The sun was glancing over the prairie from our right in the long, amber-tinted beams of early morning. The air smelled clean and sweet as the wagon crunched over stalks of grass, releasing the scent. In the taller grass that rippled beyond the beaten path, miles upon miles of wildflowers bloomed. I looked over at him as I answered, full of a trembling joy that fluttered all through me. I said, “My daddy at first, but I learned more from trying to keep up with my brothers. I remember the first time I was bucked from a horse, Lady Belle, Dalton laughed and laughed, told me that if I couldn’t sit a saddle any better than that, I deserved to be thrown.”

Sawyer was smiling already. He asked, “How old were you?”

“Eight or so,” I replied, and then echoed my father, “And don’t let the name fool you. Lady Belle was no lady.”

He laughed at that, as I continued, “She was a bad-tempered mare, but she was so pretty. A true black, shiny as onyx, and lucky for me, not particularly tall.”

“Were you hurt?”

“No, but I was furious at Dalty for laughing at me. Though it made me all the more determined to sit her.” Whistler nickered and I looked at her with fondness. I said to her, “She wasn’t as pretty as you, girl, not by a long shot.”

Sawyer stroked her neck at that, then patted her twice. “She knows it too, don’t you, girl?”

I loved how he talked to her with such affection. I said, “It was so splendid to ride her yesterday. Thank you again for that, and for today.”

He said, “It is my pleasure.”

His deep voice, his words that swirled over me like caresses; I almost shivered.

I asked, “Who taught you to ride?”

“My granddaddy Davis,” he said. “I was named for him and he lived until I was fourteen, he and my grandmother both. He built the livery stable when he first settled in Suttonville as a young man, and was as natural a horseman as you’ve ever seen. He brought Granny Alice from England when they were newly married. They were handfasted. My mama always thought that was romantic.”

“That is romantic,” I said, fascinated by his history. “Did they live with you?”

“They moved into the guest house on the homestead, once we were born,” Sawyer said, and I could tell from his expression that he was seeing not the endless prairie, but instead his family home. “Granddaddy and his brother, my great-uncle Isaac, built the house where we all lived. He taught all three of us to ride, Ethan and Jere and me. Though Ethan was the best of us, by far.”

“Better than you?” I asked skeptically, before I thought, a problem I’d possessed in my old life; at Ginny’s I’d scarcely spoken two words without first calculating how they would be received, how I might use them to avoid harm or distress.

Sawyer looked over at me with a smile nudging his lips. I babbled, “I meant, you look so well on a horse, so natural,” and realized I had already sunk myself into deep water, biting my bottom lip to forcibly restrain any further embarrassment. My face was scalding hot and it had absolutely nothing to do with the rising sun.

“Thank you kindly,” he teased me. “But to answer your question, Ethan was a far better horseman. He rode in shows, raced and won the blue ribbon every year at the Fourth of July celebration in Cumberland County. He could have outrun me on a horse any old day.”

“What did your brothers look like?” I couldn’t take my eyes from him.

“They looked exactly alike but they were complete opposites. Jere was the baby. He tended to let me or Eth speak for him. He was shy. Considerate. Whereas Eth would have done just about anything that sounded exciting. Him and Boyd egged each other on, something fierce. Eth loved to flirt. I remember Mama worried so for him,” Sawyer said, as I watched him with complete absorption; how animated his features as he spoke of his brothers. How tenderly and yet with a flowing river of wistfulness that ran beneath the words. He laughed a little and added, “Clairee Carter used to tease, speculate which local girl’s daddy was going to show up on our porch with a rifle of an afternoon, claiming that Eth was to be a father. Those days.” He sighed a little, and in it I heard both fondness and sorrow. He said, “They were red-headed, with green eyes, like Mama. A dark green, like the boughs of a cedar. Mama’s family was of County Galway. When we were little she spoke and sang to us in the Irish.”