Soul of a Crow (17 page)

“
Jesus Christ
, you two! Morning, noon, an' night ain't enough for you?” Boyd groused, surfacing nearer to us and sending arcs of water splashing our direction. “I swear, if we gotta share a cabin all winter…”

“Aw, Boyd, they's just kissin',” Malcolm called.

I ducked to evade the splashing while Sawyer went after Boyd, who whooped in challenge; they wrestled, appearing to be attempting to cause one another grievous bodily harm, but their roughhousing did not this time attract Malcolm. Instead, he called, “Come see, Lorie-Lorie!”

The boy hunkered chin to knees on the muddy bank, having gathered a row of river snails, each scarcely larger than his thumbnail, their shells forming perfect curls. I squeezed out my hair, drawing it over one shoulder as I squatted, dripping, to examine them.

“Ain't they pretty?” he asked, poking gently. “Think I could keep 'em in a jar?”

“No, sweetheart, just as you cannot keep butterflies in a jar. It is a cruelty, as they would only die.”

“I'd like me a pet of my own,” he said.

“You have Aces,” I reminded him, biting my lower lip to restrain a smile; his bare bottom hovered an inch above the ground and it was only a matter of time before he would grow far too modest to appear naked in front of me. But this evening he was still my sweet boy, unconcerned, his concentration directed at his snail-collecting efforts. The sun had drawn most of the light, and its subsequent warmth, to the far edge of the prairie, leaving behind a dusky twilight.

Malcolm's eyes brightened, and he agreed, “I do. But I mean a small critter, one I could haul about with me.”

“We'll do our best,” I promised. “Now come, let's get you dried off before you catch a chill.”

Malcolm nodded, scooping the snails into his palm and tracing a fingertip over them before releasing them back to the river.

* * *

Red dirt was warm beneath my bare feet.

What should have buoyed my heart with simple gladness—the sight of a Tennessee road, the one which led in an unhurried, winding fashion to my childhood home—instead caused the breath to solidify, painfully, in my lungs. The air was quiet and motionless, laden with scents long familiar to me, honeysuckle and sweetgrass, the loamy earth from which grew abundant wildflowers, the powder-fine dust that swirled familiarly over my toes. Sunlight cut translucent paths between the oak limbs reaching outward from towering trees in the ditch, and sifted over my loose hair.

The scene all about me was one of peaceful summertime beauty and so at first it was not entirely apparent what invited the shadow of threat to hover near…

Laughter, from somewhere nearby, filtered to my ears amid the ancient trees that guarded the right side of the road. My feet instinctively followed the sound, the grass growing tall off the beaten path and subsequently catching at my skirt, so that I lifted my hem in order to navigate the way. I found as I walked that something lurked tauntingly at the edges of my vision—a dark silhouette, hunched and silent, but when I looked in its direction, there was nothing but emptiness. I squinted, straining to spy whatever it was that observed so sinisterly, when a peal of happy sound floated to my ears, that of boys at play, and spurred my feet on their original course. People were nearby and I stepped forward, stooping to peer between two tree trunks, the bark rough and immediate under my touch.

Oh
, I whispered painfully, sun flashing suddenly in my eyes, blinking against this radiance with eyelids that felt weighted. Likewise, my ankles seemed turned to iron, anchoring me to the ground when I ached to run forward.

Mama…

My mother stood no more than yards away, the delicate contours of her form so recognizable to me—but her head was angled so that I could see only the curve of her elegant jaw, not her clear green eyes or her welcoming smile. She held a little boy, perched close on her hip; one of his plump hands tugged at a strand of her honey-brown hair. My brothers, Dalton and Jesse, were playing in the chicory field that grew behind Daddy's stable—
I could see the stable, just there across the way—
chasing one another and laughing, and the boy wriggled on Mama's arm, wanting to clamber down and join them.

The sun, hovering at the edge of evening, struck all of them from behind, creating perfect haloes about their bodies, and simultaneously gilded my vision. Half-blinded as I was, I burned with the need to move towards them—and yet I could not will myself even a step that direction.

I begged,
Look at me, Mama, look this way…

Let me see my son…

Please, let me see him…

But my pleading words did not reach her ears. Instead, a new voice echoed within mine.

Lorie,
Angus said, speaking my name with affection, just as he had in life. I tore my eyes from Mama and the boy in attempt to find him in the thickening dusk, scraping at sudden pine boughs closing in near my face, the small, sharp needles prickling my skin. I thrashed with both arms, feeling as though the forest grew smaller, encroaching upon my very body. I could not see Angus anywhere near, but still I called,
Gus! Where are you? I am so sorry…I pray that you know this…

There is danger, my dear. Danger both ahead and behind. Tell Sawyer. Do you hear me?
Though I could not see him, Angus's voice had grown urgent. Somewhere beyond my field of view Jesse called out to Dalton. Mama spoke then, heralding them to return to her, and the sky grew suddenly hazy with approaching darkness. My heart clamped into a tight fist of fear. Angus spoke close to my ear, insistent as he ordered,
Tell him, Lorie. We could not have known, not that night. Boyd was right…he was right…

I don't understand
, I implored. I shoved aside branches, looking desperately for Mama and the boy, and my dear brothers, but they had all disappeared. The chicory field was empty in the silent silver air of twilight, no hint of their presence or passage out of it, oddly menacing in the gloaming. I heard a low, frightened moan and understood that it was mine.

Gus!
I cried, but all sense of him had vanished.

There was a distinct skittering in the branches directly above me and I felt certain something was poised to swoop. I turned, blindly, and stumbled amongst thick undergrowth and grasping branches, making pitiful progress—and then I tripped over a toppled tree and fell hard to both knees. Momentarily dazed, I hung my head until the dizzy ache passed. My eyes had adjusted to the dark and as I lifted my face I caught sight of…

My mind faltered, attempting to process the sight.

What I had thought was the trunk of a tree was instead…

Was instead…

No
, I whispered—then shrieked—one shriek atop another, a wailing cry—

The gathering grays of night were not enough to obscure the face of the man on the ground, a lined visage grown cold and dead—the coldness seeped from him and into the fingertips of my right hand, moving insidiously upwards—branches scraped along my flesh as I tried to scrabble away from the punctured left eye, the gaping wound which had leaked dark blood down his neck and long since dried upon his collar.

He is dead—Sam Rainey is dead—oh Jesus—he is dead and cannot harm you –

Breathing harshly, I raked my fingers through fallen leaves in attempt to gain purchase and continue crawling frantically away. The air grew ever colder and it was then that I encountered a second body, that of the man I had known briefly as Dixon, the man who murdered Angus. How I realized it was Dixon, I could not have articulated, as his head was misplaced—my disbelieving eyes roved across the ground, coming to rest upon a distorted skull roughly arm's length from my nose, utterly stove in on one side.

The sight of Dixon and Sam Rainey here amongst the debris of a forest floor, far from the Missouri prairie where they had each met their end, made no sense, and I scrambled away from them as best I could, sticks and small rocks cutting into my palms. I seemed mired in molasses, moving weakly, slow as a slug.

Two bodies
.

But where is—

Shouldn't there be—

Some crucial detail was escaping me—it was just at the outer edge of my memory.

You must understand, Lorie
.

Lorie…

“Lorie, wake up,” and Sawyer's voice, low and rife with distress, jolted me to consciousness.

I lay sweating in the darkness of our tent, flat on my back; Sawyer's outline was etched against the pale glow of canvas as he leaned over me, his warm hands bracketing my face. I reached at once and clasped his wrists, at first unable to draw a breath past the sensation of smothering. Nor could I speak, and Sawyer said again, urgently, “Lorie!”

“It's…” I rasped over the word, parched by lingering terror, and wet my lips with my tongue before able to finish speaking. I whispered, “I dreamed of…
I dreamed of
…”

I could not recall exactly and bared my teeth in a frustrated rush of breath. My heart would not cease its agitated clanking. Sawyer gently thumbed aside the strands of hair that clung to my damp temples. I held fast to his wrists.

“I'm here,” he whispered. “It was only a dream.”

“No,” I whispered, insistent. My eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness enough to see his, mere inches away. “No…it was more than that…” I was certain of this, despite being unable to bring forth exact details.

“What do you mean?” he asked seriously, easing me up and into a sitting position, resting his hands against the outer curve of my thighs, one on either side. His hair hung loose and he was bare-chested. I sensed his desire to listen to whatever it was I felt I must say, and was grateful for the countless time that such a man was my husband, that he would not discredit any words I spoke to him, even those based entirely upon speculation.

“Something is wrong,” I said with quiet certainty.

“Are you hurting?” he asked at once, his grip on my legs tightening, and I could sense his thoughts racing backwards to the days when I was ill, unresponsive with fever back in Missouri, and he had cared for me day and night.

“No,” I assured immediately. “I am well.”

His shoulders had tensed and now relaxed. I reached and touched my fingertips to his lips, tracing the sensual outline of his mouth.

“I am well,” I whispered again, moving my hand to his cheek, overcome with tenderness.

He explained, “You were crying out in your sleep. I was in the midst of a strange dream of my own, I won't deny. I could swear that Ethan was here, with us, just before I woke.”

No sooner did he speak the words when a flash of what Sawyer had dreamed blazed suddenly into my mind—I saw Ethan Davis as plainly as a thunderhead rolling in at a clip, crouched near Sawyer's sleeping body, determinedly shaking his brother's arm. I shivered at this description, a jitter that rapidly struck each individual bone of my spine.

“He was worried for us,” Sawyer said, taking my elbows into his grasp, and I shivered, more violently this time. “I understand it was a dream, but it seems to me if I had woken only seconds earlier, Lorie, I would have truly
seen
him, here with us.”

There was a quiet aching present in his tone, barely discernible, but I heard it nonetheless. Our bedding was jumbled, more so as I scooted forward and threaded my legs about his waist; I rested my face against him, taking soft pleasure in his scent, so familiar and beloved, the rasp of his unshaven jaw, the hard muscle of his thighs under my own.

“Did he tell you anything else?” I whispered, bringing my nose to the juncture of his collarbones.

“I do not remember more,” Sawyer whispered. “I dream of my brothers from time to time, but the feel of this was different, Lorie, I tell you. Crazy I may be, but Ethan was
here
, his spirit was with us, somehow.”

I resisted the urge to cast my eyes about the interior of our tent, feeling a ripple of discomfort at the notion of a spirit, even a benevolent one related to my husband, occupying the same space. I whispered, “What do you think he meant?”

“I wish I knew,” Sawyer said, cupping the back of my head.

“I am fearful,” I whispered, clutching him more tightly, not wanting to pretend otherwise.

“I felt a stir of fear, myself,” Sawyer admitted. He sat facing the direction of the entrance and though I could not see his eyes directly, I imagined the look in them, hawk-like, keeping continual and unflagging watch over us. I knew he would never fail to protect us—but even Sawyer must sleep, must occasionally let down his guard. He placed his hands over my shoulder blades, gently rubbing me, and we held one another in silence for a long spell.

When, from Boyd and Malcolm's tent, an especially loud, grunting snore caused me to twitch, I couldn't help but laugh, quietly, at my own reaction. Sawyer made a sound of amusement and shifted position, curving both arms around my waist. My thighs spread further around his hips at this motion and I could feel the hardness of him through his trousers as our bodies pressed flush; we had not made love for several days, as a result of my monthly bleeding. He inhaled a slow breath, his lips at my temple. On the exhale, he whispered, “I apologize,” so politely that I smiled.

“Such a gentleman,” I teased in a whisper, grasping his face as I softly kissed his upper lip, pleased to feel the resultant tremble that skimmed over him. His eyes, now directed upon me, blazed with heat, discernible even in the darkness.

“My beautiful woman,” he whispered, gliding both hands around my backside, as though in preparation to take me to the bedding beneath him, as he had done so many times now.

“Sawyer,” I said, low and unrelenting, caressing downward, opening his trousers even as he protested—however weakly—that I should not.