Heart of a Dove (11 page)

“You thirsty?” Malcolm asked then, passing me the canteen that had been propped near his ankles without waiting for a reply. “I filled these all this morning.”

“Yes, thank you,” I told him, feeling as though every other word I spoke to him was a statement of gratitude. Truly, I could never be thankful enough. I drank deeply and then sighed.

“I got jerky, too,” he said. “If your belly is a-grumbling. We won’t stop to eat a proper dinner ’til we make camp late tonight.”

The afternoon passed uneventfully into evening; there was a bit of excitement, at least for Malcolm, when Boyd spurred Fortune and raced ahead, halting to stand in his stirrups, aim his rifle and fire twice in quick succession.

“Rabbits, probably,” Malcolm commented. Sure enough, Boyd galloped to retrieve their bodies, which he gutted and drained before we’d even caught up; not long after, both were dangling by their ears from the side of the wagon.

An hour later the sun had nearly sunk into the western horizon, painting the indigo sky with stripes of lavender and mauve. It was a spectacular sight, a joy. Though Angus had said we’d travel into the night, which meant hours yet. Malcolm kept a steady stream of conversation as we continued forward. Eventually, as the sky darkened, the other three doubled back and rode more closely, Angus drawing Admiral abreast of the wagon, on my side.

“We’ve been having a good talk, Gus,” Malcolm said, grinning over at Angus.

“Have you let Lorie get in a word edgewise?” Angus asked, smiling back at the boy. I studied his face in the dying light, his solemn gray eyes.

“I did at that,” Malcolm retorted, sounding slightly affronted. “We’ve gotten to know each other right good.”

“He’s right,” I affirmed. “Malcolm is a most entertaining traveling companion.”

“That is the truth,” Angus agreed, directing his smile my way next. He added, “We’ll keep on for hours yet. I’ll take you on Admiral when you’re ready to sleep.”

He meant as I’d ridden last night, tucked against his chest. My desire for the feeling of security, the safety of him, was almost overwhelming. I resisted the urge to accept that offer immediately, again hearing the words, “Thank you,” rise from my throat.

“I was telling Lorie about how Boyd plays the fiddle,” Malcolm went on. And then he rose a few inches off the seat and hollered over to his brother, “Boyd! C’mere!”

My heart throbbed as Boyd looked over his shoulder and then reined Fortune about. My distress was in direct relation to Sawyer, who also looked back, likely for the first time since we’d headed out, before wheeling Whistler around more slowly, clearly reluctant. I reminded myself that Angus had mentioned this morning that he considered Sawyer one of his dearest friends. Surely any man deserving of that title was a decent one. Still my entire body seemed to pulse with restless energy and nervous fluttering as he drew near on his paint mare.

Boyd brought his horse abreast on his brother’s side, while Sawyer flanked him to the left; I had to turn my head to be able to look at them. Sawyer’s hair, pure gold in the last rays of sun, was tied low on his neck and he rode with his wide shoulders at military attention, in sharp contrast to Boyd, who was leaning casually forward, holding the saddle horn lightly with one hand. Boyd’s hat was hanging too, though Sawyer still wore his, keeping the top half of his face in shadow; his chin appeared stubborn and his lips were set in a grim line, indicating his irritation. Even though I couldn’t fully see his eyes, I felt suddenly certain that his speculative gaze had moved to me, perhaps the angle of his hat brim or just an instinct, and I looked instantly away, feeling blood beating like a frightened bird in my throat.

“I promised Lorie you’d play for her,” Malcolm said gaily. “An’ then me an’ Lorie’s gonna have us a dance.”

The boy’s grin was practically contagious. A similar expression moved almost immediately over Boyd’s mouth and he said, “Well ain’t you the canny one.” He looked at me and said, “I’d be happy to play for you, Miss Blake, perhaps tomorrow evening.”

“I would love that,” I said sincerely, and was simultaneously horrified by how breathless I sounded, as though I’d been running alongside them.

“Boyd learned to make fiddles too,” Malcolm said. “Uncle Malcolm taught him, an’ Boyd said he’s gonna teach me yet. It’s a fine art an’ I do know some about it. You see—”

Boyd interrupted his brother with a laugh, saying, “Good lord, boy, give your tongue a rest for a piece.”

“Aw shucks,” Malcolm said, though good-naturedly. He bumped his shoulder gently against mine and asked sweetly, “You don’t mind my talking, do you, Lorie?”

I smiled at him and shook my head silently, and he crowed to Boyd, “See there!”

Another hour passed and the world grew dark and chill, a three-quarter moon lifting from the east in cold, distant glory. The moon with its face that by turns appeared benevolent and watchful, or ominous and sinister. Tonight I was relieved to observe that its expression was charitable. I stared hard into its pale, otherworldly glow as Malcolm chattered, Boyd, Sawyer and Angus riding alongside the wagon. Occasionally Boyd or Angus would contribute to the talk, mostly to tease Malcolm, but Sawyer remained conspicuously taciturn.

Caught between sleep and wakefulness, I heard Mama’s voice murmur, “Taciturn, Lorissa,” and in my mind I responded,
Taciturn. Synonyms include: aloof, distant, reserved, reticent, unapproachable
.

The moon seemed to shimmer as my heavy eyelids fluttered, my head tipping forward in its desperate wish to be pressed to a pillow. I jerked upright and from my right Angus said, “Lorie, you’re about to tumble from the wagon.”

Malcolm halted the horses long enough for me to climb down and switch places; Angus dismounted and helped me atop Admiral. I was so grateful for his warmth behind me, his solid shape, the reassuring way his arms fit around my waist in order to take the reins. I let my spine sink against his chest, my head resting against the sloping curve of his shoulder. He nudged Admiral into a walk and murmured in my ear, “You rest, Lorie.”

I wanted to put my arms around him and hold him, but that was deceitful, as he would interpret this differently than I intended. I longed dearly for the security he provided, security I had not known in so long, and I knew he longed to acknowledge, but would not, his desire for me. I marveled, as we rode, at the strangeness, the unfairness of life. How sex changed the nature of everything, of interaction and guilt and purpose. How it could bind two people. The misinterpretations and obligations attached to it. How it was exchanged and sold and perverted in so many ways every second of the world. I sighed then, half-asleep, and felt Angus brush his lips to my hair.

Hours passed while I slept against Angus’s chest, the smooth gait of Admiral beneath us as comforting as being rocked in a mother’s arms. The moon had set, the stars glinting in fiery brilliance across the sky when Angus halted his horse and climbed down, drawing me gently after. I wobbled for a moment, bracing my palms against Admiral’s warm flank until my head stopped its dizzy swimming. Angus took the reins and said quietly, “We’ll have camp set up directly, Lorie.”

I nodded, wrapping my arms about myself as the four of them worked with efficiency, lighting two tin lanterns by which to work, setting up the three tents, staking them out with the practiced motions of much repetition. I stood to the side feeling uncomfortably helpless. Malcolm came to me after his and Boyd’s tent was erect, saying, “You want to help me water the horses, Lorie?”

“Yes,” I said, a welcome chance to do something other than be in the way.

He led me toward their tether lines, where the horses were grazing busily under the stars. When they’d been unsaddled, Whistler, Admiral and Fortune had spent minutes rolling on the grass, almost like children at play.

“We’ll take ’em two at a time, the river’s just over that-a-way,” Malcolm said, thumbing over his left shoulder, still speaking in a hushed voice, as though we were in a schoolroom. The night around us was anything but silent, filled with the singing of crickets and the high-pitched chirping of frogs on the creek bed; the deep bass of a bullfrog intermittently penetrated the night. I slapped at the ever-present mosquitoes.

“For pity’s sake, let your hair down,” Malcolm said. “Or your neck’ll be eaten up worse’n mine.”

This seemed logical, though Mama would be horrified; I was well beyond the age of appearing in public with loose hair, but then again, this wasn’t exactly high society. I didn’t want to be covered any more than necessary with itching red bites. I worked swiftly to undo the pins, tucking them rather uncomfortably into my bodice, as I had no pocket.

“There,” Malcolm said in satisfaction, observing. “Wish I had me long hair like that.”

We reached the horses and they nickered in welcome, lifting their heads to acknowledge our presence among them. Malcolm untied Juniper and Aces High first, passing Juniper’s reins to me and leading the way to the creek. I found myself thrilled to be leading a horse again, his big nose bumping along just at my shoulder, the pleasant and deeply familiar scent filling my nose, his whooshing breath at my ear as he thumped companionably in my wake. I tucked my hand under his bridle, between his eyes, stroking and scratching him a little. Constantly wearing a bridle was probably similar to being strapped into a corset.

“Come on, boy,” I said, seeing the river emerge as a slim silver ribbon, reflecting the stars like a mirror laid flat upon the warm ground. I stepped back as Juniper drank, still holding his line; ten feet away, Malcolm was speaking quietly to Aces High. In the near-distant background, the comforting sound of the men chatting as they worked met our ears. After a few minutes we led them back. Malcolm retied his horse; it took me a minute longer with Juniper, and in my secret heart I was hoping to be allowed to take Whistler, Sawyer’s horse, the lovely paint who had caught my eye from the first. Over my shoulder I saw Malcolm leading both Admiral and Fortune; I smiled. Moments later Juniper was secured and I turned.

My entire body halted instantly. My heart, however, lunged against my breastbone.

Sawyer was already at Whistler’s side, tall and mostly in shadow, though now hatless. It was apparent he planned to water his own horse. Without glancing my way or ceasing his movements, untying Whistler, he said, his voice low and quiet in keeping with the night, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I wanted to respond but could not. Though he didn’t seem to be exuding as much anger as last night, or even this afternoon, I was still incredibly wary around him, all but writhing with discomfort. I realized my arms had gone instantly around myself and I eased my hold just a fraction. He looked over at me then, scarce a horse-length away. Whistler nickered and nudged his chest with her nose, and his free hand went instinctively to her, cupping and stroking under her jaw. His high cheekbones were sharply defined in the starlight, his hair appearing pure silver. He tipped his chin a fraction, almost but not quite an acknowledgment, and headed for the river without another word, leading his beautiful horse behind.

“Where’s Lorie?” I heard Malcolm question from the creek, and I looked over that way to see the boy dangling between Admiral and Fortune, his hands braced on their backs, just behind the withers, bending his knees with his bare toes in the air. The horses allowed this, though he was asking to get pitched into the water. Sawyer indicated with another motion of his head, leaning his own forearms against Whistler as she drank, as though perhaps stretching his back.

I walked away, more than ready to go to bed if for no other reason than to quiet my thoughts for the time being. The tents were pitched, the lanterns glowing in welcome, and Boyd had already dug a shallow circle in the earth, just big enough for the night’s fire.

“Have a seat, I’ll have her crackling in no time,” Boyd invited. The men had spread their horse blankets around the makeshift fire pit and I sat gingerly on the one I guessed was Admiral’s, tucking my skirt around my legs. Boyd was comfortable to be around, his dark eyes considerate. I watched in silence as he crafted a fire, stacking sticks around the tinder, striking a match, then another as the first refused to complete the task, sending the scent of sulfur swirling upwards into the night air. True to his word, a small blaze glowed in minutes. From the direction of the creek came the sound of running footsteps and Malcolm burst into view, jolting to a halt a few inches from my right hip.

He observed, “That’s my blanket, Lorie,” and when I made as though to move, he cried, “No, stay, we can sit together!” So saying he plopped unceremoniously beside me, forcing me to scoot a few inches or be sat upon, sticking his bare feet towards the fire and wiggling his toes.

Boyd laughed heartily, still in a crouch. He said, “Lord a-mighty, boy, you beat all.”

“You sound just like Mama when you talk that way,” Malcolm fired back. “Just exactly.”

Angus joined us then, chuckling as he set up an iron spit over the flames. He had skinned the rabbits, both speared on the spit and ready to cook. My hunger was almost overwhelming; despite the numerous horrors at Ginny’s place, a variety of food was always available. I had not yet adjusted to this kind of eating.

Sawyer took a seat next, to the left of Malcolm. He sat with both long legs bent, arms wrapped loosely around them, one wrist caught in the opposite hand. He said, “You’d best mind those bare feet, kid. Didn’t you and I discuss this, week before last?”

“Well you’s in a right better temper,” Malcolm commented, squinting one eye at Sawyer. I’d noticed him do that many times today and wondered if it was a habit or indicated that he needed spectacles.

Sawyer slowly shook his head at this statement, his gaze deep in the fire. His eyes were a clear, peculiar shade of golden-green, an almost perfect blending of the two colors; the closest I’d come to seeing such a color before was on the shimmering tail of a dragonfly. I realized I was staring and looked back to the roasting rabbits; the scent of them made my stomach ache with hunger.

“We had a lovely afternoon, just,” Malcolm said, and laid his shaggy head on my shoulder. I had already discerned from both our conversations and a sense of instinct that this boy, the baby of his family, had been much cuddled and petted as a child. The more recent lack of physical affection was wearing on him; he all but wanted to crawl onto my lap. Oddly, I minded not one bit. Only a sense of propriety kept me from letting him.