Soul of a Crow (8 page)

“Boys, too,” I couldn't help but tease.

“I'll be a man right soon,” he contradicted. “Right soon.” He scrunched up his face and mused, “Do you think my uncle will care for us?”

“He's your family,” I said; it was so like Malcolm to express a similar sentiment, to echo what I had been wondering about, only earlier this day. I reassured, “Of course he'll care for you.”

“He's your kin now, too,” the boy said. “You's our sister now, recall?”

I said solemnly, “Yes, I recall. Though I don't know if your uncle will share that opinion.”

“He will,” Malcolm said with all the confidence of a child. He added, a wistful note softening his voice, “I hope he looks like Mama. He is her kid brother, after all. I hope he reminds me of her. Lord, I do miss her. Sometimes I can't quite see her face or hear her voice no more. It's been near four years since she passed.” He released a little half-sigh, looking towards the horizon. He whispered, “I miss her, even still.”

I reached and squeezed his forearm, and he tenderly patted me, brightening a little.

“Did she sing?” I asked.

He nodded vigorous affirmation. “She did, all the time.”

“What did she sing?”

“From the hymnal, mostly. When the boys was gone to War, she sang from the hymnal every night. Daddy would play his fiddle an' we'd sing, real quiet-like. She loved ‘My Old Kentucky Home,' though we did live in Tennessee. An' songs of Christmastide. Her favorite was ‘It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.'”

“Perhaps if we sang for a spell, you'd hear her voice more clearly in your memory,” I said.

His dark eyes lit with anticipation and he said, “Let's sing the midnight one, do you know it, Lorie?”

“I know that one well,” I said, and together we sang through all its verses. Malcolm's voice was sweet and true. He loved to sing, or whistle, while he accomplished his chores, sometimes almost unconsciously; I had grown so accustomed to hearing him, and felt there were few things more cheerful than a whistled tune.

“Let's sing ‘Silent Night, Holy Night' next!” he said upon finishing the first song, bouncing on the saddle.

We worked our way through every Yuletide hymn we could recollect, until Boyd yelled from some distance behind, “Guess I best hang out my stocking tonight! An' make up a mince pie or two!”

“Oh Lordy, mince pies,” Malcolm said. He begged, “You'll bake up pies for us, won't you?”

“It has been a long time since I baked anything,” I admitted, and another small burst of angst shivered across my belly; I lacked so many of the skills that a woman my age, nearly eighteen, would normally possess. My existence at Ginny's required no work in the kitchen or lower household; my services, like all of the other women's, had been expected exclusively in the rooms upstairs.

And as he was so often wont to do, the boy lifted my spirits without even realizing, as he chirped, “Well, you's a fast learner.”

I looked his way, immeasurably touched at this observation.

Malcolm's eyebrows lifted abruptly and he indicated with an extended finger, noting, “There's smoke up there!”

“Looks more like dust,” I contradicted, squinting against the brilliant sun. We traveled along a beaten path upon which rain had not fallen for many days; a smoke-cloud of powder-fine dust rose in the wake of our passage, as well. I said decisively, “Come along, let's ride back.”

We circled the horses. Sawyer and Boyd had already noticed the disturbance on the trail; Boyd asked, “You three in the mood for a bit a company?”

I was most assuredly not, but refrained from voicing the thought.

From the wagon seat Sawyer asked, “Are you longing a bit for Christmas, you two?”

I smiled up at him, replying, “We were remembering songs that Clairee used to sing.”

“Then you shoulda been singing ‘Twinkling Stars Are Laughing, Love,' as that was her favorite,” Boyd said.

“Aw, Mama used to sing that, too,” Sawyer said. “That is such a lovely tune.”

“Let's!” Malcolm said, and so it was that all four of us were singing the lullaby as a pair of horses appeared distantly on the trail, trotting our way at a leisurely pace. As we finished the final verse, Boyd stood in his stirrups and called, “Hello there!”

One of the approaching riders waved and called a greeting. Despite the friendly exchange thus far, I could sense both Sawyer and Boyd grow wary, their eyes calculating and noting details, surely far beyond that which mine would observe. Boyd and Malcolm maneuvered in front of me, and I was no more than a few feet from Sawyer, and so I let my shoulders relax. I noticed the horses first as they neared, one a lovely, showy sorrel with an amber mane that caught and threw the sunlight, the other a tall chestnut. The men mounted upon them were not traveling far, as they rode with no saddle bags or bedrolls. They were most certainly a father and son, and halted near us.

The father spoke affably, greeting us, “Good day, fellows,” before he caught sight of me. He swept off his hat and amended, “And ma'am. Begging your pardon. Charley Rawley, and my boy, Grant.”

The son also removed his hat, nodding politely; curly hair flopped at once over his forehead, and he quickly replaced his headwear.

“That's Lorie an' she
is
actually a girl, even if she wears trousers,” Malcolm said importantly, and I blushed hotly at this well-meaning explanation.

Sawyer took charge and said in his deep voice, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Rawley. I am Sawyer Davis. This is my wife, Lorissa, and Boyd and Malcolm Carter. The four of us are bound for Minnesota.”

He spoke the word
wife
with such pride and my heart swelled, overjoyed that he would introduce me so, despite our decidedly unmarried status according to the laws and expectations of society. I knew Sawyer wished to honor me with a proper wedding service, but in our hearts we were already wed; no words spoken by a reverend could make this any more true, at least not in mine or Sawyer's eyes.

“Tennessee?” asked Charley Rawley, surprising all of us. He sensed this and hurried to explain, “My wife is of Tennessee, originally. I can always recognize that particular lilt.”

“We are, at that,” Boyd said, and I could hear his good humor though he faced away from me. “That's a fine ear you have. Whereabouts is your wife from?”

“Crossville, in the Cumberland County,” Charley replied, resettling his hat.

“
Shucks
, we was raised not but a stone's throw from there, in Suttonville,” Boyd said.

“As it is the Fourth of July, we are bound at the moment for the neighboring homestead, to invite them for an afternoon celebration,” Charley said. “We would surely appreciate your company for dinner, as well. My wife isn't often able to converse with folks from her home state.”

“Have you firecrackers?” Malcolm asked, with such eagerness that Charley laughed.

He said, “We've a few, son.”

Sawyer looked to me.

Do you wish to join them?

I think that would be all right
, I responded.

Boyd turned in the saddle to regard the both of us.

“We could spare an evening,” he murmured. He turned back to Charley and said, “We would be most delighted to join your family.”

Charley tipped his hat brim and then said, “I'll continue to the Yancys' homestead, and Grant shall show you the way to ours, if that suits? We're but two miles northwest of here.”

Charley heeled his chestnut and waved farewell, as Boyd and Malcolm rode forward to speak with his son. I heard Malcolm say, “That's a fine sorrel you got there. Does she like to race?”

I murmured to Sawyer, “I cannot pay a call dressed this way.”

“I like how you look,” he said, grinning at me.

“Mrs. Rawley would be horrified, as you well know,” I said, with absolute certainty. I could not under any circumstances meet a Tennessee woman while clad in Malcolm's trousers. In my memory I heard the sound of my mama's shocked, indrawn breath, the kind she always held just before releasing a deluge of critique. I had to presume that Mrs. Rawley's sensibilities would be similarly delicate.

“Thank you for introducing me as your wife,” I added softly, reaching up to rest my hand upon his knee.

“I won't have folks talking of that which isn't their business. And you are my wife, Lorie-love, no matter if a preacher has spoken over us or not,” Sawyer said, echoing my thoughts exactly, and lifted my knuckles to his lips.

- 5 -

The Rawleys' farmhouse
was set near the road, constructed of logs, square-cut and sturdy. The barn was nearly twice the size of the house, a looming structure with an oblong coral, a chicken coop, and a pig pen adjacent to its foundation. Stately pines guarded the northern edge of the dooryard, while chickens roamed in their enclosure; it appeared a tidy and pleasant place, similar to what I envisioned when imagining Jacob and Hannah's homestead. There were three boys climbing on the corral beams as we entered the yard, but they all ceased playing with amusing suddenness, jumping from the fence to watch with open curiosity. It was probably coincidental that they stood in descending height order, like risers on a staircase.

Grant proved to be a conversational fellow, only months older than Malcolm. He grew more animated as we neared his home, explaining that his family had farmed in Iowa for the past decade, after relocating from Ohio, saving the time his father served in the War.

“Pa was discharged early on, as he was shot in the hip,” Grant said. “He was lucky, though, gone scarce a year from us. Mama said it was a heaven-sent bullet.”

Grant had four younger brothers and confessed that his mother longed for female company.

“All we got for womenfolk other than Ma is the milking cow,” he joked, then immediately asked Malcolm, “Guess what?”

“What's that?” Malcolm responded gamely.

“Ma's making ice cream!”

I caught Sawyer's eye as he smiled, both of us thinking that Malcolm had found a kindred soul.

The lady of the house came outside into the sunny day before Sawyer halted the wagon. I elected to ride beside him on the wagon seat, dressed properly, as so to avoid shocking her, though my initial impression suggested that she was not one easily shocked; she clapped her hands and smiled with welcome, calling, “Visitors! I knew it, I had a feeling this morning, did I not, Grantley?”

Her voice held the soft, familiar lilt of home, and I was certain that, like me, Sawyer, Boyd, and Malcolm each pictured their own mothers. Mrs. Rawley was a slim, angular woman with dark hair in a braided bun, untying and removing her apron as she walked. Sawyer and Boyd swiftly removed their hats, almost in unison.

“Who have we here?” she asked, regarding us with genuine warmth.

Boyd dismounted, hat held to his chest, and bowed formally. I could tell she was charmed.

“Boyd Brandon Carter, ma'am, of Suttonville, Tennessee,” he said, in his most gentlemanly cadence. “Your good man invited us to dinner, if that suits you. An' your boy escorted us, forthwith. This here is my dearest friend, Sawyer Davis, his wife an' my sister, Lorissa, an' my brother, Malcolm.”

“Suttonville!” she cried. “Oh, I could have heard it in your voice. My mama was from Suttonville herself, young man.” She offered her hand to Boyd, which he took and lifted politely to his lips. She said, “I am Frances Eugenia Rawley, but you may call me Fannie. How pleased I am to meet you.”

Malcolm mimicked Boyd, bowing politely, hardly able to contain his exhilaration. He was nearly beside himself at the promise of ice cream and firecrackers, not to mention the troupe of rambunctious-looking boys eager to play. He enthused, “Ma'am, I hear tell that you's making ice cream!”

Fannie patted his cheeks and said, “Bless you, son, we are.”

Any concerns we may have harbored about a less-than-enthusiastic welcome were swept away as quickly as dust by a broom. Fannie Rawley proved as gracious as any Southern hostess from my childhood, hugging each of us as though we were relatives expected for a much-anticipated visit.

“Newlyweds, I can tell,” she said to Sawyer and me. “May I say, Mr. Davis, I have never beheld such a beauty as your wife. You are indeed a lucky man.”

Sawyer grinned widely, saying, “Thank you kindly, ma'am. I couldn't agree more.”

Fannie appropriated my arm and sent a sharp tone in the direction of the boys, calling, “Come here and meet our guests, for pity's sake!” To me she clucked, “You'd think they were raised along with the pigs. Boys, all I have are boys!” Indicating Grant, she said, “You've met my eldest, named for my daddy, Grantley Belford Catton, God rest him. This young scoundrel here is Miles, and this fellow is my best troublemaker, Silas. There's my bashful Quinlan yonder, he shan't venture near just yet, and inside at the window is my youngest, Willie. He's turning the crank, as you'll shortly notice. How old are you, son?”

This question was directed at Malcolm, who replied, “Thirteen, this month.”

“You shall fit right in with these boys. We may have to keep you here with us. Mrs. Davis, do join me inside. Boys,” and she addressed Boyd and Sawyer with this word, while I bit back a smile, “If you would be so kind as to set out the table and chairs from the barn under the poplar trees, just there? And then do be seated. Miles, fetch two jugs of tea from the root cellar. Silas, fetch Quin and spread out the quilts near the table. We'll have us a proper picnic once the Yancys arrive.”

Upon the narrow table in her living space sat a small wooden barrel with a hand-crank, which she explained was the ice cream maker. A boy of perhaps a half-dozen years sat working the handle; he watched with bright-eyed interest as his mother entered with a stranger. A nearby sideboard bulged with food. I saw sliced ham and boiled eggs, two loaves of bread, a crock of creamy butter, jars of preserves, and best of all, two fruit crumbles with crusts so golden and tempting Malcolm's eyes would undoubtedly grow tear-filled with happiness; mine nearly did.

“Willie, this is Mrs. Lorissa Davis. She, her good man, and her two brothers have only just arrived to celebrate the Fourth with us,” Fannie said, while I beamed with pleasure at being referred to with Sawyer's last name attached to my first. She invited, “Mrs. Davis, do have a seat.”

“I am pleased to meet you,” I told the boy, settling upon a chair near him, offering a smile.

Willie was possessed of curly hair and lively brown eyes, and explained importantly, “I gotta keep cranking this here handle, Mrs. Davis.”

My smile broadened at his earnest words; I earned one from him, in return. He perched a little closer to me, on the edge of his chair. He could have been Malcolm's kid brother.

Fannie lifted the cover on the barrel, peered within, and informed her son, “Your work is well done, sweetheart. Introduce yourself to the men, yonder, and then you may find your brothers and meet young Malcolm,” and Willie burst outside with no further encouragement, while his mother smiled after him.

“You have fine boys,” I said.

“Thank you kindly. I wish I could tell you that there shall be more womenfolk to chat with once the Yancys arrive, as they're our closest neighbors, but Thomas Yancy is a widower. I tell you, I have been attempting to find him a wife for over a year now. He's two sons, Fallon and Dredd - named for his mother's family, that one - and they need a woman's influence. They are as wild as you may imagine.” She did not cease moving as she spoke, gathering a tray of tin cups. “There are few marriageable women in this area, unfortunately for Thomas. The homestead north of ours is also owned by a widower. Crawford is his name, Zeb Crawford. He too lost his wife before he returned from the War, and his boys were killed in action, the entire lot of them. It was a terrible misfortune.”

I opened my mouth, on the brink of admitting to having lost my own brothers, before frantically stifling this error in judgment; I could not admit, even indirectly, that Boyd and Malcolm were not truly my kin. Instead, I asked the first question that scrambled to mind, “Will Mr. Crawford join us, as well?”

I did not believe I was imagining the suggestion of a shadow that flitted over her features. Unknowingly confirming this, Fannie heaved a small sigh and admitted, “He shall not. I do not much care for the man. Please do not think me an unconscionable gossip, Mrs. Davis, though it has been months since I've conversed with another woman. The truth of the matter is, I consider myself a solid judge of character and I do not wish my boys near him. The few occasions we have met, there was something about Zeb I found unpleasant. And there was the rumor, last autumn, that he had…”

My eyebrows lifted in alarm at her tone and the implication of such a pause; though I was not certain I wanted to hear the answer, I asked quietly, “Had what?”

Fannie lowered her voice and finished, “Burned a dog alive.”

I had been privy, in my time at Ginny's, to all manner of despicable tales featuring unscrupulous men, capable of any number of immoral acts, and I was less shocked than she would have known, though the idea of any man treating a living creature with such cruelty turned my stomach.

“To this day I am not certain if that was simply a tall tale,” she said, saving me from responding. “I would like to believe so. Thomas Yancy served with Zeb in the Fifty-First, and has never expressed undue concerns about him. My own Charley does not share my excessive dislike of the man, and so it may be that I am simply reading too much into the situation.” She offered me a sudden smile and admitted, “It would not be the first time my imagination has captured my senses.” She rolled her eyes at herself, apologizing, “And here I am, chattering up a windstorm at you. Forgive me. Tell me, how long have you been on the trail?”

She has no idea you used to be a whore. No idea at all. Do not fret.

I faltered for the faintest flicker before lying, “Since April.” It was a half-truth at best; Sawyer, Boyd, Malcolm, and Angus had begun their journey from Tennessee then, while I joined them, however unexpectedly, later that spring.

“Oh, how well I remember the spring in Cumberland County. How wonderful that the four of you are from that area. I've not been able to successfully grow honeysuckle here, no matter how I try.”

“It is the best scent in the world,” I agreed, and allowed myself the luxury of relaxing enough to enjoy conversing with a proper woman. It had been so long.

“Here's Miles with the tea,” Fannie said, as her son clomped inside bearing two corked, earthenware jugs, the kind in which people back home kept moonshine. “We have plenty of food, do not you worry. Even with the addition of three strapping young men.” She winked at me and directed Miles, “Take those to the table. Mrs. Davis, why don't you join them and bring these cups, and I shall finish my tasks.”

“Please, do call me Lorie,” I told her, accepting the tray.

Sawyer and Boyd were hatless, elbowed up to the table, which was surrounded by four chairs. Silas and Quinlan had spread the quilts, though the boys were not in sight. Miles, after depositing the jugs, scampered off in search of them. I set the tray on the table, moving just beside Sawyer's chair to do so, and he curled an arm around my hips and drew me briefly against his side. I smiled at this husbandly gesture, bending to kiss his temple. His hairline was damp with sweat.

“What have you there, Lorie-girl?” Boyd asked. “I'm a-thinking we stumbled onto the best dinner we's had in a month of Sundays.” With his usual drama, he added, “This makes up for them panthers attacking our camp, wouldn't y'all agree?”

“There
is
fruit crumble within the house,” I confirmed in a whisper, and laughed as this comment elicited small groans from Sawyer and Boyd.

I poured cups of tea for each of us; the smell of mint rose pleasantly from the liquid. I had just settled into a chair when Fannie appeared in the doorway and called, “Lorie, I do apologize, but would you mind spreading this cloth on the table?”

“Of course not,” I responded, and hastened to her.

“Thank you,” she said. “As soon as Charley has returned we shall have our dinner.”

Boyd lifted the tray and Sawyer the tea while I spread the linen and straightened it with care. No more than a half-hour later Charley returned with two riders, and I helped Fannie cart food to the table; the boys materialized as though conjured by magic once dinner appeared. It turned out that the neighbor's sons had accompanied Charley; their father would be along later in the evening.

“Oh, it is so lovely to have a woman here,” Fannie said as we collected dessert from the sideboard. “Any chance you folks would be willing to settle near? I do not speak lightly,” she insisted, as I smiled, almost shyly, at her. “I am so starved for a woman's company. And now Thomas has put an idea in Charley's head, that of taking a marshal position. Thomas works as a marshal himself, between Cedar Falls and Iowa City. Both of them served in the Federal Army, so it makes sense, I suppose. I've been fretting over it, I'll not deny.”

“Iowa City is along our route,” I said, feeling an old twinge of discomfort at the mere word
Federal
, but I would never dream of letting that show; I was her guest. Following her outside, cradling a delectable-looking blackberry crumble, I said, “I'm given to understand that it's one of the larger settlements we'll come across for some time. Perhaps until St. Paul, in Minnesota.”

“Iowa City is a good five dozen miles northwest, half a week's ride in the wagon, considerably less on horseback,” Fannie said. “I've never been farther north than that. You are on an adventure, my dear, but if I thought for a moment that I could convince you and your good men to settle near, I would,” and I was sincerely heartened at her words.

Charley carried an additional chair to the table and the five of us chatted as a magenta sun melted downwards along the western curve of the sky. Again I relished the satisfaction of conversing with respectable people, at a dinner table no less, able to draw upon my intellect and education, as I had not in so very long. We spoke of travels, the upcoming election, the Homestead Act; Charley felt certain, as had Angus, that Sawyer and Boyd would be granted eligibility as homesteaders.

“They are anxious to settle the Northern and Western lands,” Charley said. “The two of you are able-bodied, willing to work and start families, and as such are ideal candidates.”