Soul of a Crow (33 page)

Boyd flinched, just slightly; I felt a similar lashing of pain at this information.

Tilson said, “Don't let on that I've said a thing, if you would. Becky can't hardly speak Elijah's name without shedding tears for him, an' so I don't mention the man if I can help it.”

Boyd whispered hoarsely, “Killed in which engagement that summer?”

Tilson knew exactly what Boyd indirectly asked, and replied, “Ain't one that you boys was in, I can say with near certainty. Elijah died outside Vicksburg, in June of that year.”

Boyd's shoulders eased; he changed subjects abruptly, saying, “Lorie-girl, I made ready a pile of quilts for you in the wagon. An' I set up our tent, boy.”

“I ain't tired,” Malcolm said, yawning wide enough to nearly crack his skull.

“A quarter hour and you will be sound asleep,” I teased. “Thank you, Boyd.”

“Ain't nothin',” he said again, and I longed to ask him what was on his mind—a penny for his thoughts, as Mama would have said.

“Lorie-Lorie, let's have a bet,” Malcolm encouraged, with enthusiasm. Sitting straighter, he elaborated, “I'll bet you a penny I'll still be awake in a quarter-hour.”

Boyd snorted and said, “You ain't got a penny to speak of.”

“A gambler's life is no easy path,” Tilson said, grinning at Malcolm. “You's a bit young to be considering it.”

“I ain't gonna be a gambler,” Malcolm assured us. “Soon as I'm able, I'll homestead an' build me a cabin in them woods Uncle Jacob is so fond of writing about.”

“I know life in Minnesota ain't gonna be what we's used to,” Boyd said, exhaling smoke from both nostrils. Resting his forearms on his bent knees, he murmured, “I scarce go a full day when home don't cross my mind. But I aim to take my chances in the wilds north of here. I swore to myself that I would get us there.”

“What's wrong?” I asked Boyd, sensing the uneasiness in him whether he intended it or not; I thought not, as his brows drew inward.

Boyd looked between the three of us, Tilson and Malcolm and me, his face somber and his eyes unreadable. At last he admitted, “It's being in the North, in enemy territory. I know it ain't the same as when we was fighting, but all a-these Yankees about. I feel they would see us harmed for being Southern. Tell us to go straight to hell.”

“But the fighting's all done,” Malcolm said quietly. “It's over.”

“Some things ain't ever truly over, boy,” Boyd said, in an equally hushed voice. “There's an open wound in our country yet, bubbling over an' refusing to heal. I don't know when it'll heal over. An' the scar will always be there, I feel it in my bones, boy.”

I shivered at his words, which resonated with undeniable truth.

Tilson said, “There's truth to that. We ain't to see its end, not in my lifetime. Perhaps in yours, boy.” He sighed, exhaling a thin cloud of smoke, and concluded kindly, “But you get used to being in Yankee country. Took me a fair amount, an' the winters are fearsome cold for a Tennessee boy, but there ain't no life back home. Not for us, not these days. You'll find your way, all of yous. Your good man, too, Mrs. Davis.”

And I prayed that he was right.

* * *

I washed my hands and face as quickly as I was able, at the pump to the rear of the house, beneath which grew a thick patch of daisies; their soft white petals brushed against the material of my borrowed trousers. I shuddered at the icy water that snaked down my blouse while I scrubbed at my skin; my closed eyes felt like boiled eggs against my fingertips, and this observation caused another shudder to clutch at me. It was dark and cold, but I could hear Boyd and Malcolm murmuring to each other as they settled into their tent, just as they usually did on the trail, and this familiarity allowed for a sense of relief, however small. I smiled a little as I used the edge of my sleeve to dry my face, and then observed Rebecca coming across the darkened yard and towards me.

“I came to offer you my bed,” she said. “I shall bunk in with my boys in the loft.”

“Heavens, no,” I replied. “I have a bed in the wagon.”

“But it is so cold out here, for a July night,” she protested, bundled into a shawl, her hair a long braid. Her feet were bare, and the ground was wet with dew. I imagined her hem was similarly damp. She looked almost like a little girl in the dimness. She whispered, “I am sorry for my behavior at the fire. Please do not think me discourteous.”

“Of course I do not think such,” I said, gently scolding, thinking of that which Tilson had related at the fire, of this night being the anniversary of Rebecca's marriage to Elijah. I clutched her arm and said, “I wish that I had words of comfort. But I know there are not any, not when your husband was taken from you.”

“Come indoors, let me fetch you another quilt, at least,” Rebecca said, and led the way. The house was warm, and lit dimly by the fire in the potbelly of the woodstove; a chorus of snores met our ears, from the loft above. Outside, Tilson remained at the fire, stirring the embers with a long stick, meditatively smoking his pipe.

“Your uncle told us some about your husband,” I admitted as Rebecca handed me a quilt from the trunk against the north wall. I found myself wanting to talk with her, hopeful that she would be willing.

“Please, sit a moment, let us speak,” she whispered, as though sensing my thoughts. “That is, if you are not too exhausted…my manners are inexcusable…”

I sat at the dinner table, folding the quilt over my arms, and Rebecca seated herself just opposite. The quiet darkness of the room inspired confidences, and I said, “You remind me a great deal of a girl I used to know. I felt it from the first moment I saw you.”

“Malcolm said as much,” Rebecca acknowledged. “Dear Lorie. When Clint told me that day that you were missing, I was sick with worry. Far beyond that which is logical, as we had only just met, but it struck me soundly. I knew that I was to help you. I know it still.”

“You risked yourself, Sawyer told me,” I whispered. “I cannot thank you enough.”

“I did only that which I believed I should,” she said, her voice low and soft. “Your husband was ready to tear apart this town to find you. Clint is quite terrified of him, and of your brother, though he shan't admit it. And I must tell you, your brother's words…Mr. Carter's, that is...moved me greatly. You see, Clint asked your husband was it possible that you had left Iowa City of your own accord, and before anyone could speak your brother responded with an impassioned answer the likes of which I have never heard. It was beautifully spoken, so very sincere. He understands the depth of love between you and your husband, Lorie, and more than that, he was unashamed in his opinions.” She whispered again, “It moved me greatly.”

“He and Sawyer have been friends all their lives,” I whispered. The tone with which she spoke of Boyd told me far more than any thousand words. I acknowledged softly, “Boyd is a good man.”

“I shall admit, the thought of harm befalling him, or any of you, troubles me greatly. When he and Mr. Davis rode after you, I was fearful that I may never see him again…I can scarcely fathom the strength of this sentiment, even now…I was fearful I would never see
any
of you again, and I find that unbearable, as irrational as that may be…”

“It is not irrational,” I said. “It is not, Rebecca.”

“What of your family? Your mother, your father? What of your other siblings?”

I hesitated less than a second; after all, her brother and uncle knew the truth about my past. I asked, “May I tell you something?”

“Of course you may,” Rebecca said.

A log in the stove snapped, momentarily intensifying the reddish glow in the small room. Snores provided a background cadence both reassuring and oddly peaceful. I studied what I could see of Rebecca's eyes, and whispered, “Boyd and Malcolm are not my brothers. And yet, I could not love them more. They are more brothers to me than were Jesse and Dalton, God rest their souls.”

“I do not understand…”

“I used to work in St. Louis for a woman named Ginny Hossiter. I had worked for her since I was fifteen years old. Sawyer and Boyd, and Malcolm, were traveling from Tennessee, had been on the trail since April, and they were accompanied then by a man named Angus Warfield. Angus knew my father, Rebecca, and he…he took me from Ginny's place. That very night, he brought me with them…” I stuttered to a halt, unwittingly yanked amongst nightmarish memories. Not those of Angus taking me from Ginny's; he had rescued me as surely as I still drew breath, but of the night he had been killed for his trouble.

Rebecca whispered, “You will think me dense as a stump, but I still do not understand…”

“I worked for her as a whore,” I said, without rancor or challenge. It was the simple truth, after all. “Since I was fifteen I worked as a whore.”

There was a beat of silence; Rebecca's gaze remained unwavering.

“Oh, Lorie,” she whispered, and then reached across the table to grasp my hands; hers were small and delicate, but warm as they surrounded mine, which were chilled from the pump. Rebecca said, “Oh, my dear. But you are so very young…”

“When you spoke earlier of memories…you see, I understand better than you could have known. I know what it means to lie awake, plagued by the past.” I threaded my fingers into hers and held tightly; she was the second woman in whom I had confided, Fannie Rawley being the first, and neither had been horrified, or summarily repulsed. I sensed only sympathy, and compassion.

She whispered, “What of this Angus? Where is he now?”

And so I told her.

- 22 -

In the morning
I was anxious as a flea-bitten horse to ride into town and set eyes upon Sawyer.

“But we done hauled water for you,” Malcolm complained, when I voiced this desire. “Just so's you could take a bath. Why in tarnation you gotta wash
again
, Lorie-Lorie?”

His query was delivered in such a manner to suggest true curiosity rather than overt exasperation, and I caught him by the elbow and kissed his cheek. I explained, “Because my scalp is itching.”

Malcolm said, “You's got longer fingernails than me. Just scratch it, an' you'll be right as
rain
.”

Rebecca had prepared a breakfast of fried eggs and onions, and delicious corn grits; there was strong coffee, accompanied by fine white sugar in a porcelain bowl painted with daisies, and a jar of sticky-sweet blackberry preserves. Just these small luxuries were worth the cramped eating space, all of us again crowded at the table; I had grown so accustomed to taking meals out-of-doors, in the wide-openness provided by the endless prairies. After breakfast, I stole into the small bedroom at the back of the house, narrow and hardly large enough for the brass-framed bed pushed beneath the solitary window. Studying its neatly-made surface under the scattering of a fair morning's light, I knew this was the same bed Rebecca had shared with Elijah.

Last night she had spoken of him, in copious detail. From her descriptions, I pieced together a solid picture of a good-natured man to whom she was wed at age eighteen.

“His eyes were blue as cornflowers, just like Nathaniel's. Elijah never met his youngest son, and yet it is Nathaniel who most resembles him,” Rebecca had said. “Elijah never failed to speak dearly to me. He was the kindest soul alive, Lorie. I cannot tell you how greatly I long for the sound of his voice. If I could hear it once more before I die, I should be content. When I read the letters he wrote to me, I imagine his voice speaking the words.”

Elijah had fought with a battalion for the state of Iowa, from 'sixty-two until his death; his only remaining relative, an older brother, had died prior to that, in March of the same year.

“Uncle Edward never begrudged us for being Yankees,” Rebecca had explained. “Clint and I were raised in Illinois and Iowa, both—our papa was from Illinois—though I do believe a part of Mama's heart always remained back home, in Tennessee. She and Papa met there, after all, when Papa was on a business trip with his own father, in the summer of 'thirty-nine. She and Papa fell in love and courted there, and later he brought Mama, Clint, and me to this very homestead, where Mama remained until she died.”

In the relative privacy of Rebecca's bedroom, I stripped to the skin, noting the blood that had congealed and scabbed over my wound, and proceeded to scrub scalp and body, hunkering in the tin washtub that Malcolm and the boys had dutifully filled with water from the pump; I had hoped it would warm a little during breakfast, but it was still shocking to my skin. At least it was wet, and cleansed away the dust and grime. Rebecca and I talked the night away, and this morning found me still so very tired; I indulged in a moment's rest, even propped uncomfortably as I was in the washtub with its rim no more than two feet in diameter. The hard edge dug into my back, but I had positioned it near the sunlight spilling into the room, and closed my eyes to appreciate the warmth.

Zeb was here, last night
, I realized, the thought utterly unbidden, and my stomach lurched; my eyes opened at once, and roved the small room.

No. You are mistaken.

He was here,
my mind insisted, despite my best efforts to disbelieve
. He looked upon you as you lay sleeping in the wagon
.

Water sloshed as I sat straight and twisted all of my hair to the side, scanning the small window; covered as it was in oiled canvas, I could not directly view the yard, but the glow of a cloudless sky was translucently visible, and nothing more. Not the hulking figure that terrorized my thoughts if I let down my guard. I did not understand how I came to an understanding of Zeb's presence with such certainty—I had not woken in the early morning hours to spy him, I had heard nothing out of the ordinary.

You sensed him as you walked to bed, remember?

I recalled hurrying through the darkness to the quilts waiting in the back of the wagon. The wagon itself was parked between the house and the barn, nearer still to the wall tent in which Boyd and Malcolm slept last night; I had not felt unsafe.
And yet…

A shiver overtook me as I climbed within the canvas-covered space. I gave no thought to this, other than that it signified I was cold, which I had been. But what if Zeb truly had risked creeping near in the night hours, hiding out of sight and watching Tilson's homestead, angered that he had been denied his prize, hoping to enact additional harm upon us? Zeb knew that Boyd and I were here, and he bore each of us no little hatred. He would as soon kill Boyd as look at him; he had tried to kill me, and Yancy had been forced to stop him.

You are allowing your imagination to get the better of your judgment
, I reprimanded myself, hurrying from the tub and wrapping into a length of toweling, unwilling to sit motionless any longer, determined to set aside these fears. I combed my hair with Mama's brush, one of the only items of hers retained from my old life, braiding and pinning up its length. I dressed in my own clothing, with reluctance, acknowledging that I much preferred the ease of trousers to layers of skirts—how I had once longed to be a boy, understanding even as a child that they were allowed far more privileges than was I, as a girl. Mama had been predictably horrified.

“You are my daughter, and a
lady
,” she had said, on many an occasion. “And a lady allows the men in her life the privilege of taking care of her, at all times.”

I mean no disrespect, Mama, but I must disagree. And I believe you would understand, I truly do
.

“Lorie! You ready?” Malcolm called, in his usual impatient fashion. “Boyd says we gotta post a letter to Jacob.”

Tilson left for town an hour past, while Boyd settled at the table to compose a word to his uncle; Jacob and Hannah expected us before autumn, and now we were well behind our original schedule.

We will get to Minnesota, and to their home. We will reach this place, I swear it
, I vowed, thinking of what Boyd had said last night at the fire, opening the door to see him and Malcolm seated at the table, Boyd bent over his letter to Jacob, quill pen scratching along. Malcolm, from what I had already ascertained through the closed door, was in the process of begging for an evening dinner of pan-fried chicken.

“It's been such a piece since I had me some,” Malcolm said, in the appealing, persuasive tone I knew well. He sighed, “Oh, what I wouldn't give.”

“I would have to wring a few pullets' necks, and I had not intended such this day. It is not pleasant work,” Rebecca said, her hip near Boyd's shoulder as she stood drying the cake pan with an embroidered towel; Malcolm sat just across the table from his brother, the gray kitten upon his lap, and he leaned forward to ply Rebecca with his considerable charm, sensing the slightest give in her protests.

“
Please
, pretty please?” Malcolm wheedled, teasing the kitten with his fingertip. “I got me a real hankerin', now that we's talked of it. It's me an' Boyd's most
favoritest
…”

This statement gave Rebecca just the slightest pause; in her scholarly fashion, every word precise, she murmured, “I am uncertain if I have enough cornmeal…”

Boyd looked up from his writing. Rebecca, positioned as she was, could not see his face; he sent Malcolm the briefest flicker of a wink and then sighed, lamenting with apparent nonchalance, “Leave off, boy. Besides, it just ain't a dish done
right
, outside the South.”

The towel in Rebecca's hand fell still and Boyd surely felt the sudden charge in the air behind him, similar to the instant before bolt lightning pierced a cloud to strike the earth; his dark eyes were merry and he bit back a smile even as Rebecca asked, with considerable snap, “
Mr.
Carter, did I not hear from your mouth this
very
morning what fine grits I had prepared for breakfast?”

He said demurely, “You did, indeed.”

Gesturing with the pan, Rebecca demanded, “Are not grits a dish commonly prepared in the Southern states of this country?”

“They are, at that.” A dimple appeared in Boyd's right cheek, though he kept his eyes downcast.

Rebecca continued, with asperity, “Or perhaps you were offering an empty compliment.”

At this, Boyd immediately hooked an elbow over the chair back, turning so that he could see her face. All teasing gone from his voice, he said, “I was most certainly not.”

The faintest suggestion of a smile nudged her softly-bowed lips as their eyes held, and caressed; there was no mistaking this. In a sweeter tone, Rebecca said, “My mama herself taught me to fry pullets, and she was born and bred in Tennessee. See if I haven't learned a thing or two.” She turned to settle the pan on its shelf, concluding breezily, “That is,
if
I decide to fry any.”

Not minutes later, Malcolm and I turned to wave farewell to Cort and Nathaniel, who had agreed to mind the kitten in our absence; both boys hung on the corral fence to watch us rumble away in the wagon while Boyd rode Fortune, just to our right.

“You two best thank her profusely,” I said, elbowing Malcolm and then leaning to address Boyd, who rode immediately closer. I elaborated, “After that trick.”

“What trick, Lorie-girl?” Boyd asked innocently, though his eyes danced beneath the brim of his hat.

“You know very well,” I said, the ribbons anchoring my hat fluttering in the light breeze. “Even if that chicken isn't better than you have ever tasted, you will tell Rebecca it is.”

Boyd said, “She weren't fooled a moment. She saw right through me.” He added, half-wickedly, “An' I got me a notion it'll be the
best
thing I ever tasted.”

Billings was at the jailhouse this morning, sour-faced and unwilling to leave the room so that I might speak alone with Sawyer.

“Must I be plagued until you are gone from here?” Billings grumbled, his back to us as he reseated himself at the writing desk. He muttered, “Goddamn marshals everywhere, and wives…”

“Well, just the one wife,” Sawyer whispered, for my benefit alone. A hint of his good humor had been restored to him—perhaps it was the bright sun outside, the sense of purpose and promise of hope, and perhaps it was erroneous, even foolish, to allow such feelings, but I was abundantly grateful nonetheless.

He asked quietly, “Did you sleep well, darlin'? Holy Jesus, I miss you…”

I held fast to him, my fingers curled around the material of his shirt, absorbing the feel of him, storing up for when we would be apart. I demanded, “Are you warm at night? I worry so much…I miss you, too…”

“All I need to keep warm are my thoughts of you,” he murmured.

“Boyd tricked Rebecca into making fried chicken,” I said.

Sawyer grinned, and the sight of it upon his face came close to caving in my heart, same as always. He asked, “How did he manage that? She seems a woman not easily fooled.”

I was about to respond when Billings sighed, and said acerbically, “I'll thank you to state your business and take your leave, Mrs. Davis.”

“Keep near Boyd,” Sawyer said, growing serious again, his eyes intense as he took my face in his strong, lithe hands, stroking my lips with his thumbs. “Please, darlin', keep near him. Yancy is not to be trusted, and he's in a black fury that I am to see the judge. I can't see him acting on his own, but Zeb may, in his place. And with Yancy's consent.”

“Yancy is a federal marshal,” Billings said, overhearing this last remark. “He is a law-abiding citizen.”

Sawyer kept his eyes upon mine, ignoring Billings and his blustering.

Keep near Boyd
, he said again.

And I nodded my understanding.

* * *

It was Saturday, the eighteenth of July, and we should have been bound for Minnesota. Instead, I sat on a chair in Tilson's office, while Malcolm stacked and restacked a deck of cards that Tilson lent him, an untouched cup of water at his elbow.

“It's healing up right nice,” Tilson murmured. He donned a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles to examine my arm. His hands were large, but simultaneously light and careful, his fingertips gentle over my skin. “I don't see signs of infection.”

“Fannie Rawley cleansed it with garlic, and lye soap,” I said, as Tilson eased the blouse back over my shoulder, and I refastened the two buttons I had undone in order to bare the wound.

“Just as I would have done,” Tilson said.

Though I had promised to stay near Boyd, he was insistent that I remain here while he sought out Quade, and Yancy, ideally both at once. Yancy had been to the jailhouse in the early morning hours, as Billings informed me, and though there appeared to be no sign in town of Zeb Crawford, I knew better. He was lingering here, somewhere. Tilson promised to keep an eye on both Malcolm and me, and allowed Malcolm to peek into the satchel containing what medical supplies he possessed, answering the boy's subsequent numerous questions. It was otherwise quiet in his office, occupied by nothing more than our bodies and specks of rainbow-tinted dust, visible in the bars of golden sun leaking through the canvas-covered window.

And so we passed the long hours of the summer day, eating cold biscuits and bacon for lunch; later, near mid-afternoon, a man came seeking Tilson, explaining that his wife had been in labor since dawn, and was requesting the doc.

“How is she faring, Billy?” Tilson asked, up and gathering supplies, which he tucked into his satchel.