Soul of a Crow (18 page)

“Darlin', it's your time…I will not take advantage of you that way…”

“It's nearly done,” I whispered.

“We should not…” But he skimmed the shift from my body, making the deep sound of pleasure that I knew so very well.

“We should,” I insisted, breathing ever faster. I demanded, “Help me with these…”

Sawyer worked swiftly, freeing me from the binding about my lower body, hardly breaking the contact of our mouths as we kissed. I remained astride his lap and he lifted me without effort, settling my now-naked body atop his, groaning softly as I took him deep, both of us remaining still, reveling in the moment of joining.

His hands spread wide upon my back as he whispered, “The feel of you…”

I stroked his hair, suckling his lower lip with soft insistence, shaken by the force of my love for him, the desire to be this near to him, always and always, sharply contrasted by the fear that coiled inside of me, the essence of my dream crawling forth. I rebelled against any such thoughts, determinedly rocking my hips, flesh overpowering mind. I said, “I want to give you pleasure…
Sawyer
…”

He bent me gently backwards, bringing his mouth to my breasts as if worshiping at an altar, opening his lips over my flesh and tasting of me, as I sank my fingers into his hair. In time I moved swiftly over him, taking up a steady rhythm, his heart thundering against mine as we moved of one accord. The bedding churned to a pinwheel of material beneath us.

“I have never known such pleasure,” he whispered. “The moment I leave your body, I only want to be within you again…and again…”

“Yes,” I begged him. “Oh Sawyer,
yes
…”

He took me to my back upon the rumpled blankets, there able to thrust as deeply as possible, and together we tumbled off the edge of the Earth and then further, clinging to each other. Much later, in the quiet, predawn darkness, we drifted slowly back to the unyielding ground, both of us slick with sweat. I hadn't the strength to do more than smile sleepily at him, my eyes closed and my limbs limp with exhaustion.

“Lorie,” he murmured, his deep voice tender. “Sleep, sweetheart, I'll hold you. In my arms and in my heart.”

- 12 -

Iowa City was
a sprawling town situated near the Iowa River, a gleaming expanse over which the sun glinted. Sawyer deemed Juniper fit for travel, and by the noon hour we traversed a wide bridge, one of two leading north into town, to cross the Iowa—Malcolm could hardly resist the temptation to draw Aces to the railing and lean over the bridgeworks, peering into the dark-blue depths far below. The wagon and foot traffic into town was fairly heavy, but we joined Malcolm and spent a few minutes leaning over the railing and marveling, comparing this river to the Mississippi, and Lake Royal back home in Tennessee, speculating how quickly one would be swept downstream in the event of leaping from the bridge. Malcolm exclaimed in dismay as he inadvertently dropped the single penny Boyd had allowed him, which winked in a copper flash as it fell, earning a smack on the back of the skull from his brother.

The town itself, a webbed network of roads, bustled with activity, far beyond what a mid-week day warranted; it did not take more than a minute outside the post office, on a busy downtown avenue, to realize the activity was because of a double hanging that was set to take place in the center of town, come one o'clock this afternoon. Apparently a gallows had been newly constructed for this rare occasion of capital offense.

“Plenty of folks are eager to see these two at the end of a rope, for robbing the stage and shooting a local fella,” said the man whom Boyd inquired about the crowds, a self-proclaimed journalist that introduced himself as Horace Parmley. “Idea Wright's the one who shot Ned McGiver. Though I doubt Wright actually
aimed
for McGiver's head. Folks figure poor Ned just moved the wrong direction and caught a fatal bullet in the cheek. Always was an unlucky bastard, God rest him.” Parmley interrupted this detailed explanation to tip his hat at me, from where he stood near Sawyer's side of the wagon in the bright sun. His age was perhaps mid-twenties; he wore thick side whiskers and a mustache that entirely obscured his upper lip. Using forefinger and thumb, he fastidiously smoothed it, inviting, “Spectacle's outside the courthouse, an hour past noon, if you folks have a mind to see the show.”

“We'll pass an' be on our way, thank you kindly,” Boyd replied, a note of dark humor woven into his ironic tone; it was not lost on him that Malcolm's shoulders drooped just a hair, in disappointment, though the boy wisely held his tongue. I supposed that were I a lad of twelve years, a double hanging might stimulate my imagination with a similarly macabre and irresistible fascination.

Not to be so easily dismissed, Parmley said, “Idea Wright wore the gray back in the War and folks around these parts are predisposed to disliking him, on account.” He continued, conversationally, “Rebs, even former Rebs, get what they got coming to 'em, is my opinion. Wouldn't you say, fellas?”

There was a beat of strained silence—the journalist, who could not have known with any sort of certainty that he stood in the presence of two former soldiers—did not seem discomfited by the pause. He bore the subtle mien of a man who enjoys any negative stir occasioned by his words. Sawyer shifted position on the seat beside me. He and Boyd, still mounted on Fortune, exchanged a brief glance, conveying depths of information, in the way of longtime friends.

“If you'll excuse us,” Sawyer said, jumping nimbly from the wagon and consequently almost into Parmley's space. Sawyer did not appear overtly threatening, and in fact even offered what appeared a pleasant smile, but Parmley, a goodly amount shorter, tipped his hat and was in a sudden flurry to depart.

“Five blocks east, if you change your minds!” he could not seem to resist informing us.

Boyd adjusted his hat and cast a dark glance after the retreating figure. I surmised that if Boyd had been chewing tobacco, rather than inhaling it, he would have spit a plug in the same direction. He muttered, “Goddamn pencil-necked son of a bitch.”

Sawyer made a fist and tapped it once, lightly, against Boyd's bent left knee, closest to him as Boyd sat the saddle. He said, “We must expect some of that.”

“Don't mean I gotta like it,” Boyd grumbled, dismounting in one smooth motion, patting Fortune's neck. He ordered, “Boy, you mind the wagon while–”

“Aw, Boyd, I wanna ride the town, like I done back south,” Malcolm interrupted with a wheedling tone, thumbing over his shoulder in the general direction of Keokuk.

“This is a far bigger an' busier place, an' I ain't got time to accompany you,” Boyd said, in a voice that brooked absolutely no disagreement. Boyd had woken with a headache and sounded unusually cantankerous as a result; he narrowed his dark eyes at his little brother when Malcolm's mouth opened in what was surely intended to be a protest.

“Here, love,” Sawyer murmured, reaching to help me down and simultaneously giving Boyd a moment to regroup; Boyd, however, seemed determined to provoke an argument of some kind. On the opposite side of the wagon, Malcolm's bottom lip protruded in a stubborn half-pout. He was still astride Aces and appeared in no hurry to relent to his older brother's orders.

Though he never sassed Boyd, there was a faint edge in his tone as Malcolm insisted, “I can ride me the town alone.”

The very air seemed clogged with tension, visible as a cloud of smoke. Though Sawyer did not seem unduly concerned at the gathering storm between the Carters, I felt this rare animosity only contributed to the vague uneasiness that had plagued me for some time now, and even more strongly since last night, when Ethan Davis's spirit inexplicably visited our tent.

Boyd impatiently cracked his knuckles and said tersely, “You'll do as I say, an' there ain't no two shakes about it, boy. Now, git down from that horse afore I yank you down.”

Malcolm posture squared and his jaw bulged, but before he could speak I burst into their exchange, offering, “Why don't you and I walk the avenue, dear one?”

My words had the immediate effect of pacifying Malcolm—some of the angry sparkle fled his eyes, replaced by earnestness. He turned his gaze back to Boyd, clearly asking wordless permission, and though he still radiated ill-temper, Boyd grudgingly nodded. Malcolm dismounted and tied Aces' halter to the hitching post.

“You'll be back shortly,” Sawyer said quietly, not so much an order as a need for assurance. He spread his fingers over my ribs, rubbing lightly; my heart hitched on a beat and I stood on tiptoe to get my arms around his neck.

“Of course,” I whispered.

“Boyd and I won't be but a few minutes, just yonder,” he said. “I need a handful of horseshoe nails, and I mean to find you a journal.”

I smiled at this, tugging him down so that I could kiss his chin.

Malcolm came to collect my arm, looping it around his. Having regained his customary cheerful temperament, Malcolm said, “Don't you worry none, Sawyer. Me an' Lorie's gonna be back straightaway.”

If only he had been right.

* * *

Everywhere we walked, people spoke of the hanging—men, womenfolk, children running loose as stray dogs. I had grown accustomed to the peace and relative solitude of traveling the prairie and so the cacophony of voices, the clink of wagon chains and passage of hooves over the hard-packed ground, common noises which usually receded into the background, seemed too sharp, absurdly loud within my unsettled mind. If I closed my eyes too long I was unwittingly returned to St. Louis, and Ginny's, where this exact slurry of sound played continually. Display windows caught Malcolm's attention time and again—he was a great one for marveling, and had there not been a cold spot clinging to the back of my neck, I would have been able to better enjoy the sights.

We reached a cross-section of street, pausing to consider in which direction to continue, and my skin crawled as though suddenly inhabited by biting fleas; our position put us catty-corner to a grouping of saloons. A pair of women, heavily rouged, watched the lively action of their town from a storey up, leaning their hips against a decorative finial on the porch railing above an establishment called the Forked Hoof. I was uncomfortable to the point of sickness at the sight of them and the memories they unintentionally provoked, and was about to insist that we return to the wagon when Malcolm tugged my arm and exclaimed, “Kittens!”

I looked where he was pointing, perhaps twenty paces down a side street, and felt a sharp blow land solidly upon my heart; Deirdre sat on an overturned washtub, her dark hair shining with scarlet glints in the sun, smiling as she listened to two little boys. She held three tiny kittens in the hammock of her skirt, stroking their fur. The sun shone in my eyes and I squinted in stunned confusion, belatedly realizing that of course the woman upon whom I gazed was not Deirdre but instead a stranger who resembled her greatly. The sight of the girls who worked in the saloon, coupled with memories of my old friend, sent distress prickling along my scalp.

“What's wrong, Lorie-Lorie?” Malcolm questioned. As usual, despite his brimming energy he was finely tuned to my feelings; he regarded me with somber eyes, gently patting my elbow.

“I'm well,” I assured, though I had to force a calm tone. I nodded towards her and explained, “The woman there reminds me a bit of a girl I used to know, that is all.”

“Let's say good day!” Malcolm pleaded, not pressing for answers as he would have if older than twelve years. “Might we, Lorie?”

A beat of indecision struck at me, but then I thought of our conversation last night at the riverbank, and nodded allowance.

“But only for a moment's time,” I said.

The woman acknowledged us with curious eyes as we approached, further increasing her resemblance to Deirdre; I thought of the way I used to envy my old friend's ability to express excitement and anticipation, even in the midst of life in a whorehouse, and how observing those feelings, even secondarily, gave me comfort. I thought of Deirdre brushing my hair and holding me close in the room of horrors which had been mine at Ginny's, how her friendship had been the only thing to sustain me during those years. I faltered a little, at first letting Malcolm do the talking so that I could catch my breath past the bruising ache in my breastbone.

“Howdy, ma'am, we spied these here kittens,” Malcolm explained. The two boys, perhaps ages five and seven, fell silent and watched him with keen-eyed interest; I elbowed Malcolm as discreetly as possible and he swept off his hat, tucking it beneath his left arm. His dark hair was flattened with sweat, and the woman smiled indulgently at him.

“Perhaps you should like to hold one?” she invited. She was about the age Deirdre would be now, had she lived, twenty-five or thereabouts, slim and delicately built, with glinting dark hair pinned into two low rolls on her nape. She was fine-featured, her eyes a lovely, multi-colored hazel, decorated by predominantly brown tones, but rather than the pale, nearly translucent skin that Deirdre had possessed, rarely venturing out of doors, this woman's hands and face were brown with the sun; a sunburned vee of skin was visible on her chest where her collar buttons were undone two past the top in concession to the heat of the day. Whereas my old friend had been ethereal, I sensed that this woman was possessed of an opposite mettle.

“Thank you kindly, ma'am!” Malcolm enthused, accepting a small gray ball of fur; the kitten mewled and Malcolm cuddled it close, murmuring endearments.

“Rebecca Krage,” the woman said in introduction, shading her eyes with her left hand and offering her right. Our eyes met and held as we shook, and I felt a knowing pass between us, even without words. In other circumstances, my instinct suggested, we might have grown to be friends. She indicated the boys and added, “And my sons, Cort and Nathaniel.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Krage,” I said. “I am Lorissa Davis, and this is my brother, Malcolm Carter.”

“Does the hanging bring you to town?” she asked; as though guilty for taking pleasure in gossiping, she explained immediately, “Excuse my appalling lack of manners. I must confess, I live in a household with no other womenfolk to keep me company.” Adopting a conspiratorial tone she said, “My uncle, Edward Tilson, doctors for the town and surrounding areas, so I know everyone hereabouts, and nearly all of their secrets, unpleasant or otherwise. Please, do call me Rebecca.”

“We are not here for the hanging. We are bound for Minnesota,” I explained, charmed by her. “Sawyer, my husband, and my elder brother Boyd are at the dry-goods store at present. We knew nothing of the hanging but were quite well informed by a man named Parmley.”

“Parmley,” she repeated, disdain in her tone. “The man is a sore nuisance, that's what. Excuse my speaking so freely, but I have been acquainted with Horace most of my life, and he has not improved greatly with the years. He no doubt relished delivering all the unsavory details.”

I found her forthright speech unexpected and admirable—as well as accurate.

“What's this little fella's name?” Malcolm interrupted to ask of the kitten; he was clearly smitten.

“Dear boy, I haven't named a one. Uncle Edward's cat very recently produced this litter and the kittens were promised to households long before they were birthed. There isn't a better way to rid a barn of varmints.” Rebecca invited, “Why don't you choose a name for that one? In fact, I would be happy to gift you with the animal, if you've a mind to allow it, Mrs. Davis. No better mouser in the county than its mother.”

Malcolm's face was wreathed in sudden hopeful joy, dark eyebrows lifting as his lips fell open. Staving off what was sure to become a begging campaign, I asked, “But aren't all of them promised to other families?”

Rebecca lowered her voice and confessed, “Uncle Edward wanted to keep one for himself, which I shall instead give you. I'll weather his temper, never you fear.” She saw my surprise at her words, and said, “I am only teasing. Uncle Edward is soft-hearted as a dove, for all his blustering. He shan't be angered. He is more than able to keep a kitten from the next litter.”