Soul of a Crow (13 page)

“You have, love. And that they chose to be wed that way is more meaningful than any wedding in any church.”

“Tomorrow,” he said, taking my hands and kissing them, and there was such anticipation in his voice that I laughed, even as tears streaked over my cheeks. He said, “I would join our hands and bind us, this very second, but there is ceremony to the process. And I believe I can say with certainty that Boyd and Malcolm would be out of sorts if they were not allowed involvement.”

“Tomorrow,” I agreed, and I would not fear my abounding happiness.

But Sawyer was far too sharp-eyed, far too adept at reading my thoughts, and he caught the flicker, asking at once, “What is it?”

I whispered, “There is such joy within me, but I won't fear it. I will not.”

His eyes were deep with understanding, though I thought of something else then.

“Tell me,” he said.

Recalling how he had so carefully cleaned the blood from my thighs that night on the prairie in Missouri, in that miserable camp, I whispered, “I wish your first sight of my body could have been less…gruesome.”

“Never think that,” Sawyer insisted, almost severely. “Lorie, never. You couldn't be more precious to me, or know how it feels for me to look upon you.” His eyes flashed with determination and he said, “I would look upon you now,
mo mhuirnín milis
. Let me,” he whispered, shifting us so that he knelt before me. Lightning backlit the walls of the tent as he took my knees into his warm, strong hands. “I love you so, let me look upon you. I would see for myself that you are no longer hurting.”

I trembled with emotion as I nodded, and he kept his eyes upon mine. His bare chest rose and fell as he drew my knees carefully around his hips. The lantern light danced golden over us as he smoothed the shift slowly upwards; I lifted to my elbows to watch him, overcome at the sight of him between my legs. His lashes swept low as he trailed his touch deliberately and with utmost gentleness to the skin between my legs, my lower body bared before him.

He said, “You are the most beautiful sight I have ever beheld. Jesus, Lorie, sweet Jesus,
you are beautiful
.”

He touched me, his face stern in its emotional intensity, fingertips resting upon the center of me. I could not help the small sounds that escaped my lips, closing my eyes, head falling back as he traced along my flesh. He groaned softly, his hand stilling its tender motion, cupping me.

I opened my eyes. Sweat was trickling over his temples, his eyes blazing so intensely with heat that every nerve between my legs tightened, sensation jolting swiftly enough to startle me.

“I would that no one had ever touched me there but you,” I whispered.

“No one will, ever again. You are mine,” he said, and bent forward between my legs, palms curving under my backside as he kissed me just where his hand had been.

No one had ever before put their lips upon me so; it was the Frenchy sex that Ginny had always disdained and would not allow in her whorehouse. Though in the next second the shock of it was swept away, Sawyer banishing all else from my senses but him, his kisses and his stroking tongue, the immediacy and intensity of him. My neck arched and I cried out as he opened his lips upon me, holding me close. Within my body was a river, suddenly undammed, a flowing heat that burst amidst my blood, my nerves. I had never experienced such a thing. The force of it overtook me, shook me in its jaws, so that gasping cries broke free from my throat. It built, and built, as he continued his passionate ministrations, with each thrust of my throbbing heart, and swelled until the final pulsation shattered over me.

Afterwards I lay wilted and replete, my cheek turned to the rumpled bedding. I was too spent to allow for movement; Sawyer was breathing as though he'd just run miles upon miles, unabatedly. He collapsed against me, grasping my hips. He rested his forehead on my belly, his shoulders arched over my thighs. I wanted to touch his hair, his mouth, convey to him that he had brought me more physical pleasure than I'd even known existed, but my hands rested limply on either side of my face, the undersides of my wrists tinted a pale cream in the lantern light. The skin between my legs pulsed, slippery with warmth.

“Thank you,” I managed to whisper. “Thank you…for that.”

“Lorie,” he murmured, his voice muffled against my flesh. It tickled but I had not the energy to move. He placed a tender kiss upon my pelvis and whispered, “My beautiful, beautiful woman. You are so very welcome.”

“I've never…no one has ever…” I desperately wanted him to know what was in my heart.

He trailed warm kisses upward along my belly. As his nose encountered the material that still covered my breasts, he paused and grinned at me, asking sweetly in his husky voice, “May I, darlin'?”

At my breathless nod, he bared them and opened his lips over my nipple, which swelled against his tongue; I should have known that of course he would call forth such unfathomable and blissful response. I clutched his hair and held him. He groaned and cradled my other breast, full and heavy in his tender grasp, before shifting his mouth there, taking me into its incredible warmth. He caressed gently between my legs, gliding his knowing fingers over the sensitive flesh, sparking afresh the quivering sensation that lingered in the wake of his kisses.

“Sawyer,” I gasped repeatedly, my breath emerging in bursts, as though I was being pummeled. It seemed I could only call forth his name; I could scarcely recall my own. I felt him smile against my skin, tongue still upon me; my nipples gleamed wetly. I begged, “Don't stop, please…
don't stop
…”

Rain pelted our small shelter, thunder colliding upon itself in the sky just above. A small, rational part of my mind was grateful for this noise, as perhaps it muffled my cries; I was not being particularly quiet. Sawyer gently rubbed his chin, prickly from two days without shaving, between my breasts, simultaneously pressing the base of his palm against the juncture of my legs; I shivered delightedly. He murmured, “I will never stop loving you and never stop bringing you pleasure.” He grinned, almost wickedly, so handsome that my entire body seemed to hum, as strings would when skimmed by a bow. He said, “I do so hope to bring you pleasure, my Lorie.”

My every nerve sparked as the ends of matches when struck to life. A flush bloomed all along my bare skin. I whispered, “You bring me pleasure as I have never known.” I smiled almost shyly as I borrowed his words, “In case you hadn't gathered.”

His grin broadened and he said, his deep voice soft, “I gathered.”

- 9 -

You two have
that look about you,” Boyd said in the fair morning light, squinting one eye at us, before concentrating on lighting his first smoke of the day. The storm had passed over, leaving the world refreshed in its wake.

My cheeks grew hot. Sawyer told Boyd, “Perhaps it's because Lorie and I are to be wed today.”

Boyd crouched beside the fire and at his knowing smile, my cheeks blazed even hotter; I could not deny there was an insistent, driving ache within me by dawn's fairy light that I found rather alarming. I wanted more of what Sawyer had shown me last night. So much more that I felt moon-eyed and faint, by turns, my stomach light as a boll of cotton.

“Well, that explains them stars in your eyes, Lorie-girl,” Boyd teased. “Though, I don't recall seeing a preacher in these parts. You got one hog-tied in your tent? Not that I'd blame y'all.”

“No, we'll be handfast,” Sawyer explained, just the slightest catch in his voice, reflecting the depth of his feelings.

Boyd said, “Just like your grandfolks. I'll be.”

“We hoped that you'd play us a waltz or two,” I said.

Boyd's eyes grew soft with fondness as he said, “Of course I shall.”

Malcolm bounded from their tent, crying, “Can we have us a wedding feast an' the like?” He dropped to his knees near where I sat and his countenance changed markedly. He uttered, “Lorie, wait!”

I lifted my eyebrows at the alarm in his tone.

“You ain't got a wedding dress,” he said, so clearly dismayed that I couldn't help but smile.

“No matter,” I assured him. “I don't need—”

“Now, hold up,” Boyd said, lifting one hand. “That ain't so.”

“Mama's!” Malcolm realized joyfully. “Mama's dress is in the trunk.” He bounced with glee. “You'll wear it, of course. Mama wouldn't have it no other way.”

“Oh Malcolm, I couldn't possibly—”

But the Carters were up and rooting in the wagon before I'd finished my protest. I looked at Sawyer and found him smiling. He lifted our joined hands and kissed mine, saying, “I knew their mama well, and she would be overjoyed to lend you her dress.”

My eyes filled with tears. Sawyer said softly, “She would, don't spend one second thinking otherwise.”

Behind us, Malcolm crowed in triumph, “Here it is!”

Boyd called, “Lorie-girl, get over here on the far side of the wagon! Sawyer ain't allowed to see this 'til it's on you.”

Clairee Carter's wedding dress was sewn from ivory silk. Watered silk, with a fitted waist and draped sleeves that flowed delicately to the elbow. Seed pearls glistened on the neckline. Neither passing decades nor having been stored in a cedar trunk had diminished its delicate beauty. Boyd held it aloft in the morning sun and I clasped both hands beneath my chin.

“It's exquisite,” I whispered, reaching to touch the material. The sun gleamed over the pearls, throwing fire. My eyes were likewise dazzled at this gift.

Exquisite
.
Synonyms include: elegant, impeccable, gorgeous, striking
.

“You look about of a size with Mama,” Boyd said. “I do believe that this'll fit you right nice.”

“I can't thank you enough,” I said, tears blurring the sight of the silk.

Boyd said, “There wasn't much my sweet mama loved more'n a wedding, an' fancies. How I wish she could be here to get you ready, Mama and Ellen Davis, both. You'll just have to trust me an' the boy, Jesus help us.”

After breakfast, at Boyd and Malcolm's insistence, Sawyer was not allowed to set eyes upon me until what Malcolm referred to as ‘the service.'

“Don't worry, we'll get your betrothed cleaned up right nice,” Boyd assured me.

“You gotta wash your hair, Lorie-Lorie,” Malcolm ordered, insistent as any lady's maid. “I feel that oughta be the first thing, ain't that right?”

In my shift, I ducked, shivering, into the river as the sun rose and sparkled over the water in ever-shifting golden coins; we had indeed happened upon a lovely spot to camp, near a small, rocky beach alongside the indigo rush of the Iowa. The shallows, where I bathed, were blessedly warmer than the deeper center of the waterway, in which Malcolm, who had stripped to his skin, swam delightedly while I soaked; when my fingers skimmed over the flesh between my legs, hidden beneath the water, I let my fingertips linger a heartbeat longer, closing my eyes and recalling every blessed second of last night. Though his hands and mouth left no part of me untouched, Sawyer had refrained from fully joining our bodies—that would be for tonight. And a giddy anticipation rendered me weak-kneed; I ducked beneath the surface, pressing both hands to the fluttering joy centered in my stomach.

A half-hour later I was scrubbed within an inch of my life, dressed in a dry shift while Malcolm proceeded to brush out my hair; I sat on the bedding in the tent I shared with Sawyer, knees drawn up and chin resting upon them, while Malcolm knelt behind me.

“I am ever so happy that you twos are hitchin' up,” Malcolm said, smoothing the fingers of one hand within my loose hair; his touch was so gentle, almost worshipful, his familiar voice with a note of winsomeness not normally present. “When we rode away from you an' Gus, I was scared, I tell you. Sawyer couldn't eat, an' hardly spoke. At night he curled over an' wept like his world was ending. It was right terrible.”

I had known this, and still Malcolm's words tore at my heart. I whispered, “Thank you for taking care of him.”

Malcolm said guilelessly, “I wish
I
could marry you, Lorie-Lorie, I ain't gonna lie, but I can't imagine you or Sawyer without the other, not no more.”

“You are such a dear heart,” I told the boy, turning to look at him as he frowned with the concentration of working gingerly through a tangle; he knew to start at the bottom, combing the ends before the roots. The scratch on his face appeared raw and sore. I said, “Someday you will make a fine and loving husband.”

Malcolm rested one hand flat against my skull, the brush poised in his other. I studied his brown eyes with their long lashes, the dusting of freckles over his nose and cheekbones. He held very still and his gaze was fixed distantly, somewhere other than this moment.

“What is it?” I asked quietly.

He blinked and refocused upon the here and now, meeting my eyes and imploring, “Will I ever meet a girl I love as Sawyer loves you?”

“Oh, Malcolm,” I whispered at this heartfelt question. “For certain you will meet a girl you love with all of your heart. You're so young yet. Wait until you've lived a little longer.”

He resumed stroking the brush along my hair. “I do hope so. I aim to have me a passel of young'uns an' make sure that there are more Carters than anyone ever did see.”

“Then you will,” I promised, and his face lit with a smile, eradicating the winsome yearning present just moments ago.

“Me an' Boyd got lots more planned for you, but it's a secret,” Malcolm informed with a wink, reminiscent of his elder brother, and somehow, I was certain, their father. He said, “You's a bride today an' it's your wedding, even if we ain't got no cake.”

“I am a bride,” I marveled softly, biting back a smile at Malcolm's lamentation regarding the decided lack of victuals available here on the prairie. My mama would have swooned, probably fainted outright, at the notion of such an ill-prepared and hasty service, requiring smelling salts to revive her sensibilities. But material things mattered not a whit to me; I was content beyond reasoning, I who had spent years accepting that I would never marry, that I would die alone and likely of unnatural causes. I looked at my ring, bringing it to my lips. I begged Malcolm, “Tell me of the surprises. What have you done with Sawyer?”

But the boy only grinned like an imp.

“You'll see, Lorie-Lorie,” was all he would say.

* * *

I emerged from the tent in the late afternoon; I had slept for a long time, waking on my side to behold a canvas wall glowing with soft afternoon light, and rested my cheek to Sawyer's pillow. I thought of him telling me about his paternal grandparents, about Sawyer and Alice Davis, who handfasted long ago, against the wishes of her family in their homeland of England, before bravely journeying to a new continent to begin their lives together. I thought of my own parents, William and Felicity Blake; under other circumstances, my daddy would be walking with me on his arm to place my hand within Sawyer's. Mama would arrange my dress, tucking and tidying to her satisfaction, before standing back to admire me, her beloved only daughter. Although I was not one for praying, I brought my folded hands to my lips and closed my eyes. I saw them each in my memory, and that was enough.

Mama, Daddy. Dalton, Jesse. I will never forget you, not so long as I live. I hope you are able to see that I am at last happy, that I am marrying the man I love.

I whispered, “Amen.”

“Lorie, come eat!” Boyd called from outside. “Just a bit longer now,” he said as I joined him, and then he immediately groused, “This is one sorry wedding feast. Dammit, if the two of you woulda give me some warning.” But as I sat and accepted a plate of food, his teasing tone changed markedly. He fixed his dark eyes upon me, as somber as Malcolm had been earlier, when brushing my hair. Boyd said softly, “I was scairt, Lorie, when he thought he'd lost you. I can't tell you. I've never seen him suffer so.”

I whispered, “Thank you for being there with him, Boyd, when I could not.”

“Lorie-girl, I love him, too. Him an' me are brothers to each other. He knows my life an' I know his, an' to see him so happy does my heart a good turn, I tell you.”

“May I see him soon?” I begged.

Boyd said, “Soon enough, little bride. Come, eat an' we'll get you into your dress.”

Within my tent, I shed my garments and slipped into Clairee's gown; it was wrinkled, as there was no helping that, but its silken length fell softly over my skin. I couldn't manage the delicate fastenings that laced closed the back of the gown; Malcolm had returned, I heard him whispering with Boyd, and I called, “May I have a bit of help?”

“C'mon out,” Boyd said.

I ducked from the entrance, clasping the dress together behind my back, to observe that Malcolm was carrying an armload of wildflowers so large it nearly obscured his face.

“Me an' Sawyer spent all afternoon picking these for you,” he announced.

Boyd moved behind me and without compunction began hooking the small loops over each subsequent pearl button. His face near the back of my neck as he bent close to work, he muttered, “I gotta admit that I'm a bit more familiar with this process in reverse.”

“You ain't gotta talk like that. It's Lorie's wedding day,” Malcolm scolded, depositing the flowers gently near my feet. He said, “Here, let's get some a-these in your hair.”

At last Boyd successfully secured me into Clairee's lovely gown and then I choked on a restrained laugh as Malcolm observed, concerned, “It's a bit tight, just there.” Adding to the unconscious hilarity of this statement, he poked a finger in the direction of my breasts, as though I did not take his meaning.

Boyd snorted in surprised exasperation, though he could not help but laugh, his eyes almost inadvertently detouring to briefly regard the material that did fit a touch too snugly across my front side. Boyd winked at me and said, “I doubt that Sawyer will complain.”

He and Malcolm arranged flowers next, and I marveled as I watched them at close range, the Carter brothers with their dark eyes serious and contemplative as they threaded more than a dozen blossoms into my hair. I was at once overcome with love for them and with the urge to giggle as they worked over me, as attentive to detail as any two handmaidens. Malcolm gathered up the rest of the flowers, which smelled of the green tang of freshly-plucked stems.

He said, “This here is your bouquet, an' Sawyer done give me this for you.”

Malcolm passed the flowers to my waiting hands and reached into his trouser pocket, withdrawing Sawyer's mother's lace handkerchief.

He said, “This here is to bind your wrist to Sawyer's, Lorie-Lorie. You're to tuck it against your heart, Sawyer told me. I'll be back directly!”

So saying, he darted away, fleet-footed. I held Ellen's handkerchief to my lips before tucking it, as instructed, near my heart.

Boyd stepped back and surveyed me with lips pursed. He pronounced, “You are the prettiest bride I ever seen, savin' the woman that I shall wed someday, God an' good fortune willing.”

“Oh, Boyd,” I said, catching him into a hug, my bouquet brushing his ear with petals. “Thank you, for everything.”

He hugged me close and kissed my temple, then drew away to regard me again, with a critical eye, straightening a flower in my hair. Clairee's dress
was
snug against my hips and breasts, which contributed to my increasing breathlessness, though otherwise fit well. The silken sleeves left my arms bared from elbow to wrist, the neckline dipping gracefully beneath my collarbones. My hair, decorated with blossoms, hung loose.

“Let me grab my fiddle,” Boyd said. “An' then I will be pleased as a daddy to escort you to your betrothed.”

I saw Malcolm leading Whistler. The long evening sunbeams struck the two of them, edging them each with a halo of golden radiance; my throat ached at the beauty of it.

“Sawyer's a-waiting for us!” the boy called, anticipation ripe in his tone. He chirped, “What do you think of Whistler-girl, huh, Lorie-Lorie? Don't she look pretty, too?”

He had woven flowers into her mane and tucked them in her bridle.

“Thank you, sweet boy, for all of this,” I whispered, hugging him tightly. “I couldn't possibly love you more.”

Malcolm blushed and twinkled. He said gruffly, “I love you, too.” He added, with a tone of quite flattering awe, “Lordy, you's a sight. I can't wait 'til Sawyer sees you, I tell you.”