Soul of a Crow (6 page)

Sawyer squeezed my hand, held in his. He said, “I have grown so used to you wearing trousers.”

“Truly, I am not anxious to be strapped again within one,” I said, but it was improper to appear in public lacking appropriate undergarments, well I knew. And propriety was something to which I found a great deal of joy in adhering, after so long neglecting the notion. I admitted, “I
like
wearing trousers, as you know. And corsets are terribly uncomfortable.”

“And all that lacing along the back
is
a hindrance,” Sawyer said, eyes glinting with teasing devilment, and I could not help but blush, this time succeeding in my endeavor to pinch him.

The sun crept over the town and was angling decidedly westward by the time I found myself in the small bathhouse, certainly a luxury I would do well to appreciate now; chilly creek baths were the norm, and would continue to be so in the foreseeable future. Sawyer, Boyd, and I spent the day listening to advice concerning what garments and supplies would be necessary in the forests of the Northland; we lingered unexpectedly over a pleasant conversation in the modest hotel abreast of the post office, as the owners were both friendly and informative. Their son was the boy with whom Malcolm had been chatting earlier, and his mother made a gift of a delectable spice cake and subsequently the tin pan in which she had baked it, telling me to make plentiful use of the pan; it was now wrapped in a linen and tucked carefully into the wagon bed.

In the narrow wooden tub in the quiet, damp, musky-scented bathhouse, I washed my hair and scrubbed my body with a cake of lilac-scented soap, exploring tentatively between my legs with gentle fingertips. I could discern no further damage, and no longer felt as tender there, or within my abdomen. My skin was moon-pale beneath the water. I submerged entirely, keeping my eyes open and letting my hair drift around me in the water, like a slow-moving creature intent upon touching my face. I remained there until my lungs burned, lifting slowly back to air and then inhaling deeply. I was so very thankful to be alive.

The warm, soaking water felt good against my limbs, such a contrast to the usual rushing chill and muddy shallows of the river; I smoothed my hands upwards over my belly and breasts, full and still achingly tender. As often occurred when I was naked, my thoughts inadvertently coiled back around to my time at Ginny's, when I bared my body repeatedly, for stranger and regular customer alike, learning swiftly to bury the accompanying shame. Sawyer had refrained from asking me directly about my time there, allowing me to offer information as I chose instead, though I knew him well enough to understand that he would listen to whatever I revealed. I thought of what he had spoken in Missouri, about husbands and wives keeping no secrets from one another; though I agreed, I knew it would be a long time before I would be strong enough to reveal all of the horrors I kept hidden away.

Deirdre
, I thought at last, holding my old friend in my mind, as carefully as I would have cupped a baby bird.
How I wish I could still see you, even from time to time. I would be content with that. You were one of the few people who knew what it meant to live as a prisoner there.

What about that fellow called Slim?
I heard her ask, in my memory, and she giggled relating the story.
He's awfully proud of his pecker, and it's nothing to brag about, let me tell you. All of them are so proud of the damn things, as though we should be privileged to take them into ourselves. Men are either the most deluded, arrogant lot in existence, or the stupidest.

At Ginny's, I had grown accustomed to the finger-shaped bruises on my thighs from the continuous assault of gripping hands, night after long night. My insides would ache if I forgot to ease the way with butter; by contrast, the morning's potash always stung. Most all men reeked of tobacco and whiskey, unwashed hair and sweat. Some were heavyset and fumbling, others lean as bullwhips and just as unkind. Men with bristling, graying whiskers, older than my father. There was the young man who spilled his seed before I even took him into my body, so nervous was he at the prospect of being with a woman. There had been the regular who preferred to bind my wrists to the bed posts before he lay with me; though he never physically hurt me, I had been so frightened, so vulnerable in that position, that bile would rise as he went about his business. I'd clenched my jaw in order not to vomit. Thankfully, like most of them, he never lasted long.

With sincere effort, I sent those memories scattering and focused upon the image of my dear friend Deirdre that always appeared first, she with her dark hair hanging soft and loose, clad in her pale-yellow dressing gown, delicate face free of any artificial adornments. I had known her face in many guises in the years we lived at Hossiter's, but always in my memory I saw her as I had the afternoon of our first meeting. She had been widowed prior to her time as a whore, young, and as dear to me as any sister; her husband had been killed in the War, like so many other good men, leaving her abandoned and with no resource other than that of earning money the one way always available to women, rich or poor, in sickness and in health. Instead of forsaking all others, we forsook no one in our old profession.

I found meager comfort in addressing her, choosing to believe that she was able to hear me, wherever it was that her soul now lingered, and thought,
Deirdre, I pray that you have found your Joshua in the Beyond. I miss you so. And do you know what, dear one? I am going to be married. His name is Sawyer Davis. All those nights you and I sat on the side balcony staring up at the stars and hearing the coyotes yipping, he was moving towards me. I hope you know this. I pray it. I love him so, Deirdre, I could never explain in words.

Though in my mind Deirdre seemed to smile at me, a gentle and familiar expression that brightened her dark eyes, a sudden seizure of need to see Sawyer rose in my body, insistent as a late-winter wind, as though something may have caused him harm as I lingered in this wooden tub. I sat in haste, water sloshing over the sides, scrubbing damp strands of hair back from my forehead with both hands. Wet, it hung nearly to my waist, heavy and inhibiting as a woolen cloak.

Don't fret
, I told myself, though my heart was erratic as I hurried to dress and braid my hair, my unease as pointed as a needle.
Sawyer is safe, he's close and he's safe, just at the wagon. He is more than able to take care of himself.

Still, last night's dream sought a handhold in my mind, and I shivered. My hair was damp as I all but ran from the bathhouse, into the gathering grays of twilight in the small Iowa town; at once I saw Sawyer, heading my way from where the wagon was parked at the side of the dusty street. Relief flowed as palpably through my body as blood, displacing the chill. He sensed that something was amiss, perhaps my posture or just a feeling, as he jogged the last few strides to meet me, catching me against him. I held fast, possessively gripping the material of his shirt and cradling my cheek to his heartbeat. Death had come so close to picking me utterly clean of those I loved.

“I'm here,” he whispered, understanding without words. “Come, Lorie-love, let us go. Boyd has promised something to eat, back at camp.”

Once free of the town the light subtly shifted, reaching us with no manmade structures to block its radiance, and promptly I felt restored; upon the open ground of the prairie the sun shone with soft yellow tones, beaming long and low from the west to touch us as we rode the short distance south to our camp. Sawyer drove the wagon, Whistler following alongside, as she had this morning, and I turned to look back at her. In the sunset light, her hide gleamed rust-red and cream. Her intelligent brown eyes acknowledged my attention as much as her quiet whicker.

“We'll ride tomorrow, how's that?” Sawyer said to our horse, and she snorted as though in agreement. There were times, as now, when I was certain she truly understood our words.

“Whistler,” I murmured. “You good girl. You kept him safe in the War, didn't you? You brought Sawyer to me.”

Sawyer said, “She loves you, too, you know. She raced to get to you. We knew you were in danger, and she ran as she never has before.”

Boyd had a side of beef grilling over the fire, the rich aroma causing saliva to dart into my mouth. Malcolm whooped at the sight of us, springing up from where he sat polishing his saddle in the last of the light, and deep within I felt a sense of coming home, strange as it might seem to feel such stirrings for a place with no permanent structure, a camp we would vacate at dawn. Sawyer drew the wagon near before surrendering me to Malcolm's enthusiasm; immediately the boy asked, “You wanna play some marbles, Lorie-Lorie? I smoothed me out a big circle in the dust, yonder.”

“Of course I do,” I said happily, and reflected for the countless time how fortunate I was to have this family, my Sawyer and Boyd, my sweet little Malcolm, to call my own.

- 3 -

The four of
us lingered for a long time around the fire that evening, in our usual places. The sky was clear and without end, the stars cold and glittering, somewhere far distant from us. Boyd brought his fiddle from the wagon and bowed out notes here and there, quietly, in keeping with the mood of the night. I studied the orange flames as they licked the wood, drifting somewhere between wakefulness and sleep; I let my eyes close, and Malcolm whispered, “Lorie's sleeping.”

“Don't fall asleep yet, I still have your present,” Sawyer murmured into my ear, and then to Boyd and Malcolm, “I believe we'll retire, you two. Good-night.”

“'Night, Sawyer, 'night, Lorie-Lorie,” Malcolm said, kissing my cheek as I reached to hug him.

Boyd played us Byerley's Waltz as Sawyer helped me to my feet and into our tent. The music was so sweet that I shivered, as Sawyer hung our lantern upon its hook, staked into the ground close to our bedding. When I reached to unbraid my hair, he stilled my motions, requesting, “Let me.”

Without a word, I nodded; his gentle touch sent immediate shivers fluttering down my spine. I pressed both palms lightly to my belly as he worked efficiently and tenderly, freeing the last twist so that my clean hair fell loose in a heavy sweep, which he entwined in his fingers.

“My beautiful woman,” he murmured. His strong, supple hands moved to my waist and drew me closer as I tried to recall how to breathe, heat flowing freely from his skin to mine. He studied my eyes, his own somber, before bending to one knee. Reaching into the leather bag tied to his trousers, the small one in which he kept coins, he extracted something that he held between his index finger and thumb. His eyes were steadfast upon mine as he procured the fingertips of my left hand, kissed my knuckles, and then slipped a ring upon my third finger.

With quiet satisfaction he said, “I knew it would fit.” His joyous eyes lifted to mine, alight with anticipation and joy. “I bought it while you were bathing. I wanted you to have a betrothal ring and this one was so delicate and lovely, just like you. I know it is not fancy—”

“I could not love it more,” I whispered, bringing my hand near to examine the ring in the lantern light. It was a smooth golden band, detailed with engravings of roses, and it fit snugly at the base of my finger. I knelt as well, so that I could get my arms about him. We had come so close to losing one another forever, and I held him as hard as I could. I whispered against his warm skin, “Thank you.”

He whispered, “You are so very welcome.” He kissed the side of my forehead and said, “I looked for a journal, but there were none to be found. I would that you were able to write your thoughts. I know well the comfort of that, as I wrote to my parents often during the War.”

These letters were kept treasured in a small leather trunk bearing his surname; when we had been forced from each other in Missouri, I took from this trunk several of the letters written in his hand, and his picture, the framed tintype made just days before he left Suttonville as a soldier, back in 1862.

Although he already knew it, I whispered, “I read those letters nearly to pieces. I felt I had a part of you still with me, and not just in my memory.”

“Lorie,” he whispered. “It hurt so unbearably to be apart from you.”

“I would have kept your picture for always,” I said. “I would have cradled it to my heart, every night.”

“We will never be apart again,” he promised.

I drew back enough to see his eyes, and said, “I wish I could have known your family.”

Sawyer's voice was tender with remembrance as he said, “They watch over us, as does your kin, and they understand that you are my family now. My mama always wanted a daughter. She would have taken one look at you and known you for mine. Daddy would have kissed your hands and entertained you with stories, and my brothers…” Here he laughed a little, before he explained, “Jere would have blushed and been too tongue-tied to speak to you, for days no doubt, but Ethan would have shoved me to the side and flirted for all he was worth,” and I smiled at this description of the twins.

Outside, Boyd was still fiddling the soft, sweet waltz.

Sawyer whispered, “They would have loved you so,” and the air between us subtly shifted, a potent beat of desire taking up an insistent rhythm as our gazes held; there came now the necessity of removing our clothes. Low and husky, he whispered, “May I?” and indicated the buttons of my blouse.

I nodded and his fingers moved to the fastenings that ran in an evenly-spaced length between my breasts, slowly unbuttoning each. Once undone, he drew the material carefully down my waist, leaving only my shift. Though one had been purchased this afternoon, I wore no inhibiting corset, and Sawyer's eyes were so intense that I began to tremble, my blood a hectic springtime stream, bound to overflow its banks.

“Now you,” I whispered, and I reached to slide the suspenders over his wide shoulders, then tugged free the shirt from his trousers; as his skin was subsequently slowly bared, heat absolutely leaped between us. I made a small, inadvertent sound, letting his shirt join the soft pile of clothing on the ground, moving my fingertips to the planes of his face. I traced along the high cheekbones that created such angles, before letting my hands slide down to caress his bare chest, firm with muscle. Once in my life, I would not have believed myself capable of speaking the words, certain the ability to experience desire had been eradicated from my soul; I whispered sincerely, “You are beautiful, Sawyer, truly.”

He smiled, radiantly, shaking his head at me, taking us both to the bedding. Bracing just above me, he said, “You flatter me, darlin'.” A heartbeat later, he murmured, “Your skirt.”

With my eyes, I told him what I wanted.

“Very well,” he whispered, and his fingers moved to the back of my waist. He took my hips fully into his grasp, bracketing my body, before sliding just beneath me to unfasten the pair of buttons, slowly and deliberately.

I love you so very much
, he said without words, letting his thoughts penetrate mine, his eyes intent with purpose; my heart thrust with such vigor that I was lightheaded, drunk upon his presence, his touch, his eyes and his scent. He told me,
I wish to bring you pleasure as you have never known.

Yes,
I responded in kind, flush and feverish with need for him.
Oh Sawyer, yes
.

“Once we are wed,” he whispered, softly kissing my lips, tasting just lightly with his tongue. “I know you are still hurting, Lorie-darlin', and I won't ask anything more than you're ready for, you know that, even after. We will wait until you are ready.” He tucked hair behind my ear, fingertips lingering on my jaw.

I couldn't help but smile at these gallant words, even as my limbs trembled at his touch. I whispered, “I know.”

“Lift your hips,” and his voice was a throaty murmur. “So that I may remove this skirt.” He slipped the material down my legs, freeing me from it, and then said, “Come here to me.”

“I love when you say that,” I whispered, as he gathered me close. His eyes asked me to explain what I meant, and so I did. “You said those words just after we kissed for the first time, in the thunderstorm.”

He said softly, “All I want in the world is for you to come to me.”

I bent my right leg around his hips, lifting my chin so that I could kiss the juncture of his collarbones, where his pulse throbbed hectically, matching mine. Through his trousers and my shift, our lower bodies pressed intimately close. Despite his promise, which I knew to the depths of me he meant sincerely, and would honor, he was rigid as the trunk of a hardwood tree. I swallowed and begged softly, holding his gaze in mine, “May I at least touch you?”

At my words a tremor passed through him and he sounded strangled as he whispered, “I do not expect—”

“I want to,” I implored in a whisper, interrupting him. “Please, let me touch you.”

Without waiting for his acquiescence, I slid my left palm down his belly, flat as a knife blade, and then over his solid length. He moaned, deeply, as a shiver jolted through him, tipping his forehead to my shoulder, hand gripping my thigh. I held my touch steady against him, blood thundering through me, not daring to free him from his trousers, though instinct was demanding heatedly that I do so. My entire soul was afire.

“Lorie,” he groaned. There was such repressed passion in his eyes that everything within me flashed and sizzled in immediate response, as if struck with bolt lightning. “You don't know how incredible your touch…”

He briefly closed his eyes, as if gathering strength, and then determinedly caught my hand into his, kissing my knuckles before bringing it to his cheek. His voice shook as he whispered, “I am attempting to be a gentleman, truly. A gentleman,” he repeated firmly, as though I'd contradicted him.

My hand still burning, I murmured, “I know, I do. I'm sorry.”

“Never be sorry for touching me,” he said passionately, kissing the neckline of my shift, where my skin was bared, and I shivered. He said, “Never be sorry for that. I would beg you to touch me, all the time. But you are not fully healed, and I would despise myself for making love to you at present. I will wait.”

I pressed even closer to him.

“I love taking down your hair,” he whispered, stroking its length. “And letting it fall all along your shoulders. You are so very soft. And so lovely I can hardly breathe for wanting you.” He drew slightly away and ran his fingertips slowly between my breasts, my nipples round and swollen against my shift, craving his mouth; his touch moved to my belly, over which he spread his hand in a wide, warm length. His eyes were ember-dark with desire as they moved slowly back to my face.

I told him, “As soon as we are wed, you will have to fight me away from you.”

He laughed, low, and said, “Now that's a fight I will gladly lose.”

* * *

It seemed as though I had scarcely closed my eyes when Sawyer said in my ear, “Lorie, stay here and don't make a sound.”

Mired in the deep black bowels of night, our tent was encased in smothering darkness. His words conveyed such seriousness that I did not dare ask what was the matter, though clearly something was—having delivered this order, he moved swiftly, and I sensed more than saw him crouching at the entrance to our tent. I lifted to one elbow, unable to continue lying flat, and as my eyes adjusted, I saw that Sawyer held his pistol at the ready; my heart seized and began thrashing, but I remained obediently silent. Sawyer bent his head, as one listening fixedly, and I threw my senses immediately outward, hearing nothing at first other than the ferocity of my blood.

What is it?
I begged him.

Someone's out there
, he responded.
The horses are restless
.

And then I could hear exactly what he meant—from the direction of their tethers came the agitated rustlings of our animals, whickers and whooshes, a stomping of hooves, quiet sounds that would go unnoticed by day's light, but nonetheless those indicating that someone approached their position. Sawyer whistled two quiet notes, those of a bobwhite quail, which was his and Boyd's customary call for each other's attention when words could not be used. Seconds later, to my relief, I heard Boyd stir within his tent.

Sawyer told me,
I will return shortly
.

I knew it was useless to beg him to be careful; he was cautious and well-trained, a former soldier whose Company had engaged in countless brutal conflicts during the War, but it stabbed at me to remain behind as he silently undid two of the entrance ties, taking a moment to retie each behind him before slipping into the night. I rolled immediately to all fours, crawling to the edge of the canvas nearest the horses, and listened with all of my effort, hearing little but the continual flow of the river, just to the east. Time inched rather than passed. I heard Boyd emerge, his footfalls barely perceptible; I imagined him joining Sawyer, the two communicating with gestures as they determined their next move. Malcolm was also awake in the adjacent tent, and though the boy did not share the ability to hear my thoughts, I sent a message his way,
Be still, please, dear one. Be silent.

I waited, finding it nearly unbearable, more excruciating as seconds ticked by with no indication of what was occurring outside. My eyes roved over the canvas mere inches from my nose as I crouched, pale even in the pitch-dark night.

Malcolm whispered fervently, “
Lorie
.”

I jerked in fright at the sudden sound, and could tell he was right outside; my lips compressed into a tight, angry line at this certain disobeying of Boyd's orders. I opened my mouth to respond when a woman screamed, a high-pitched, blood-curdling yowl that set every hair on the back of my neck rigid. I choked on a gasp, scrambling to the entrance, fingers shaking almost too much to free myself from the tent.

Malcolm cried shrilly, “What is it?”

In the same instant, perhaps two dozen paces distant, Sawyer shouted, “Just there!”

Boyd yelped and there was the shock of gunfire at close range, three shots in rapid sequence; Boyd roared, “They's headed for the river!”

I fumbled to my feet and raced around the side of the tent, frantic to know what was happening. A supple blur of movement from the direction of the horses caught me unaware; something formidably large bounded so close to me as I stood there, unsheltered, that I nearly toppled over. Before I could make sense of what I had just seen, Sawyer bellowed, “
Lorie!
”

A second creature leaped through our camp on the heels of the first, lithe and enormous, a courier of death as surely as a bullet to the heart. The wailing screech again shattered the night; my blood went to ice—and then Sawyer was there, ascertaining that I was safe before charging after what I belatedly realized was a pair of catamounts. Though utterly unharmed, I sank quite involuntarily to the cold ground. Near the riverbank, Sawyer fired twice after the fleeing animals, just as Boyd ran from around the far side of the tents. Catching sight of Sawyer loping back to us, Boyd stopped short, tipping forward to catch his breath; both of them were almost visibly sparking with energy.