Heart of a Dove (30 page)

Sawyer kissed my hair and then rested his chin atop my head. He whispered, “I’ve no wish to hurt him, not ever. He saved me too, from myself. I would have been content to die, back in Suttonville these past terrible years, but Gus wouldn’t let me. Lorie, I would do about anything for him.”

Except let him have you
, he didn’t say. But I heard it just the same.

I clung to him, whispering desperately, “I hate to think of you hurting. I can’t bear it. You have seen more in your life than I could imagine, either.”

He swallowed and spread his hands on my back, warm and strong against the thin material of my shift. His voice was low and ragged as he said, “For a long time I wished I’d been killed. I came so close, so many times. I couldn’t bear to speak of what I’d seen, except with Gus, or Boyd, as they’d been there and they knew. The filth, the misery of it. Killing other men. I haven’t the nature for that, not like some. But I’ve killed so many. I’ve watched men slaughtered all around me. I’ve seen rivers and the very mud I stood in running red with blood, and still that didn’t stop me from shooting out the guts of another soldier, another man. Anyone in my path.”

“It was a war and they would have killed you,” I said, holding fiercely to him. I shuddered at the picture he had painted. “You survived, and I will thank God every day for the rest of my life for that.” I cupped his precious face in my palms.

His eyes had sparked with tears and my heart constricted. He didn’t allow them to fall, clutching my waist as he said, “After my brothers were killed, I started to believe that this existence meant nothing. All of that blood and suffering and wretched death. Those sights will never be washed clean from my memory, no matter how much I beg God. I was the oldest of us, I was supposed to watch out for them. Mama begged me to protect them and I promised her I would. God, I was so green, so goddamned green and full of myself, and yet here I sit now, alive when they are not.” He inhaled a painful breath, holding me captive with his eyes before continuing passionately, “For the first time since then I understand why I was spared. I was meant to live to find you. To find you, Lorie, and to be with you. To realize that there is something meaningful and beautiful in this world that is worth fighting for, something beyond all of us.”

His eyes reached into my deepest heart and re-forged a bond between us that perhaps even death could not fully negate. It was as though every life our souls had lived together for a thousand years suddenly surged up and twined into the air between us, almost tangible; all I knew for certain was that I’d been moving towards him from the moment of my birth, searching for him, without even realizing.

I stroked my fingers tenderly over his face, traced his bottom lip with my thumbs, and he shivered, closing his eyes. He was all heat and intensity and fire, into which I would have gladly thrown myself and burned slowly for all eternity. I whispered intently, a catch in my throat, “You are mine, Sawyer. I feel it in my bones, my blood.” My throat choked with a cry as I said, “I have never known something so absolutely.”

He said, “Come here, come to me.”

I moved at once to my knees, straddling his lap as we clung, holding each other as hard as possible, tightly enough to stop time, to keep us in this stolen moment. I curled my fingers into his hair, long and silken, kissing his temple, his jaw, the side of his neck, as his big hands swept over my ribs, my waist, clutched my hips. I rocked against him as our lips met, the bottom of my shift riding over my knees and then higher. I wore nothing beneath. Deep, lush, stroking kisses that I felt to the core of my being; I could never get enough of him. He groaned against my lips and I shuddered with the force of my need, tipping my head as he kissed my throat, my collarbones, his hands again spread over my back. I clutched his head and arched towards him as he pressed his mouth to my heart, hammering out of control behind my ribs. My nipples ached, nearly slicing through the thin material separating them from his lips, his tongue.

“Lorie,” he whispered, his voice harsh in its intensity. “I want you with everything in me, but I won’t…”

“I know,” I whispered, my own voice shaking. “I know.”

He was far too honorable, and it made me love him all the more. I had never truly wanted a man, ever before, but none of the men I’d known had been him. He pressed his chin between my breasts as I straddled him, looking up at me as his fingers caressed my back. I smoothed his hair, tenderly, my heart still convulsing against him. His eyes were fierce with desire and I felt a jolt between my legs, hot and intense. But I forced myself to push those feelings away, for now. It wasn’t the time, not yet.

He shifted us, tucking me against him, kissing my flushed and sweating temple. He held me curled to his chest, my hands folded against him, stroking my hair until a fraction of the heat in our blood had cooled. After a time he whispered, “Where did this come from?”

He gently traced the scar on my face with the back of his fingertips.

“Someone hurt you,” he said, low and with certainty. “I noticed it from the first. What happened?”

I bit the insides of my cheeks, unable to prevent the sudden trembling that quivered over my limbs. Not even Sawyer could protect me from my memories of Sam Rainey’s hatred.

“There was a man named…Sam,” I whispered, my voice rough with the remembrance. “Sam Rainey. Two years ago, he came to Ginny’s and requested me and…” I was determined to tell him. “When we were in my room, he asked me where I was from. He could hear the Tennessee in my voice, and his eyes went dark. He’s crazy with hatred, I just didn’t realize how crazy. He said he’d…killed so many Tennessee Rebels in the War.” My throat snagged on the memory and I could sense Sawyer’s tension as he listened, his compassion. “He was holding my chin in his hand, but I shoved him…I shoved hard, and knocked him over…I wish I’d been brave enough to grab something heavy and kill him, claw his face, but what I should have done was run. I should have run. He lunged at me.”

“Lorie,” he whispered.

“I’ll stop, it’s not proper to talk of,” I said, misunderstanding.

“Lorie,” he said again, soft and passionate. “If you had the courage to live through it, then I have the courage to listen. Sweetheart, there is nothing you could tell me that you should feel ashamed about. Please know this.”

I closed my eyes and let myself be comforted by his words. I whispered, “He had a knife. He ran it along my neck, just the point, not breaking my skin.”

Sawyer made a sound, a deep and throaty sound, and held me secure.

“I tried to get away…I tried. But he was on top of me. My head hit the dressing screen and knocked it over, and they heard that below, on the main floor. When the door opened…he slashed at me and I know he was trying to aim for my throat, but he struck me there, instead,” and I indicated my scar.

“I would kill him if he was here, I would run him through.” Sawyer’s deep voice was harsh and I’d no doubt he meant those words. “That you had to experience such makes me ill.”

“He was never allowed back in Ginny’s,” I said. “But he’s still around St. Louis, or at least he was as of last year. I thought…that night, when someone was in my tent…my first thought was that it was Sam.”

“The other man, who was he?” Sawyer asked, stroking my hair the way I’d seen him stroke Whistler, with tender and total devotion.

“Someone from Ginny’s, though I didn’t know him well. He’s a friend of Sam’s, I think, but I still can’t believe that he’d risk himself to come after me. Ginny must have offered him enough money to make it worth his while.”

“I knew you were in danger that night. When I woke I could hear him in your tent. It was all I could do not to rip open the entrance, but I heard him telling you to hurry, and I waited. I knew if I surprised him I’d have the better advantage.”

“I was trying so hard to be quiet, I was so afraid one of you would be hurt if I made a sound,” I whispered. “You stopped him from taking me.”

“I would do that and more for you,” he told me intently. “I will keep you safe. And we aren’t so easy to hurt, truly.”

“But Malcolm,” I whispered. “He’s just a boy, he was never a soldier. I would have gone with Jack to save any of you, but I worried so about him.”

I traced Sawyer’s scar then, asking him with my eyes to explain.

“It was after the War,” he said softly, his eyes lifting upward for a moment, back into his memory. “Boyd, Gus and I had been mustered out. We were riding home from Georgia. A group of Federals came across us, late one night. They tried to take our horses, tried to take Whistler from me. The one who gave me this was mounted, slashed at me with his saber.” For a moment he was utterly still, caught in the memory, before he finished, “But he didn’t get her.”

I kissed him there, lingering, breathing against him as he stroked my back, my hair. The night around us was anything but quiet, crickets fiddling and the humming of mosquitoes, the sound of birds as dawn rapidly approached; I noticed nothing out of the ordinary at the high-pitched chirp of a bobwhite quail, though Sawyer at once straightened and said, low, “Boyd.”

Boyd came creeping into sight, shaking his head at us and stopping not three feet away, hands on hips. Sawyer drew the blanket modestly over my shoulder, continuing to hold me tightly, and said with a hint of both dark humor and sarcasm, “Well if it ain’t Bainbridge Carter, come to check on me.”

Boyd muttered, “Would that I were my daddy, at least I’d be able to strap your hide like you done goddamn deserve. Beggin’ your pardon, Lorie.”

“Boyd,” Sawyer began, but Boyd held up a hand and interrupted.

“Dammit, man, how could you do this? Take advantage of Lorie this way?”

“Now wait just a minute—” Sawyer shot back, his deep voice defensive bordering on angry.

“Boyd,” I said firmly, and they both quieted, looking to me.

I flushed, but it was hidden in the darkness. I said firmly, “That isn’t the way of it. We’ve been talking here, truly. Sawyer has been nothing but a gentleman.”

Boyd rolled his dark eyes heavenward, but he then he said softly, “It’s not even that I’m so concerned about, Lorie. I mean, I am, if your honor is in question, but it’s more that I worry for the both of you. You know what I mean, old friend,” and with those words he looked hard at Sawyer.

“I know,” Sawyer said then, all traces of anger gone from his throaty voice. “I do know, Boyd.”

Boyd crouched down, forearms on his sturdy thighs, and regarded both of us in the starlight. He said, “I can see plain as goddamn day what you-all are feeling. An’ I fear someone’ll be hurt.”

He and Sawyer held gazes for a time, before Boyd rose to his full height. He concluded, “I’ve a-said my piece an’ I’ll be on my way,” and with those words he left us in the darkness.

“I know he means well,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Sawyer, he’s right…someone will be hurt, and it will be my fault.”

He held me to his heart. Against my hair he murmured, “I’ve told you of my granddaddy Sawyer and my granny Alice.” I nodded. He went on, softly, “Granddaddy told me that he and my granny Alice weren’t allowed to be wed, back in England. We all knew the story from the time we were small.”

I wanted to hear everything, all of his history, his stories. They became part of me, when he passed them to me with his words. He kissed my forehead and continued, “It was because Granny Alice was from a wealthy family. Her father was in the military and my granddaddy was of no means. His father was a woodcutter, that’s where our name ‘Sawyer’ comes from—” Here he paused as I gasped, unable to stop myself.
The woodcutter
. The woman in silver had known, somehow.

“Go on,” I whispered. I would tell him of her another day.

He kissed me and resumed his story, while my heart bloomed with renewed wonder.

“Granddaddy met her of a fall afternoon, and he knew that she was for him. I remember him telling me and Ethan and Jere this same story, and his eyes would be full of the sight of her all those years before, on that autumn day they met. Granny would come and put her hands on his shoulders, and he would draw her against his side, and I knew that I wanted nothing less than that for myself, one day. I knew I wouldn’t stop searching until I found my woman. Oh Lorie, I mean to have that with you.”

I was cradled to him, and he held me as though I was the most precious thing in his world. Sawyer lifted my chin, looked deeply into my eyes.

“Her father forbade their marriage, but they were handfasted, the two of them, and came to America shortly after, around 1820. My father was born in 1821, and then my great-uncle Isaac joined them and they started the smithing business in Suttonville. And all of those years, until they died, they were never formally wed in a church. Granny said that the handfast was enough for her. That was all she wanted. They loved each other so, Lorie. After Granny died, Granddaddy just stopped living. He died not weeks later.”

I clung to him, absorbing the story of his heritage, the gift of him.

Oh God, please let me bleed soon. Oh please, dear Lord…

“Lorie, ” he whispered. “I’m here, and I won’t let you go.”

I wanted so badly to believe him. I trusted him with all of my heart. But I’d lived long enough to distrust this life.

I whispered, “My Sawyer, my woodcutter. Thank you for telling me their story.”

“That’s only the beginning,” he said, and there was soft humor in his eyes again. “Granddaddy was a talker. No winter evening would pass without one of his stories. Now come,
mo mhuirnín mhilis
, it will be dawn in but moments.”

We hurried, spurred on by the lightening sky. The horses whickered and stomped as we passed, and Sawyer caught me close for one last kiss, a sweet, soft kiss, before we came into sight of the camp. No one was stirring, and he kissed my hands, one after the other, before I ducked into my tent and collapsed atop my bedding.

- 18 -

I woke no more than two hours later and immediately Sawyer’s words came rushing into my mind, my heart, filling me to bursting. I curled to one side and folded my hands against my heart, stretching out with my senses, trying to determine if he was yet awake. He was, out near Whistler, and I could think of nothing but getting to him. My hair flowed loose over my shoulders as I buttoned into a skirt and wrapped within my shawl, then hurried to untie the laces. A fire was crackling and I could hear Malcolm in his tent, but encountered no one else as I ran out towards the horses. The sun was an inch above the horizon, golden and calm as a benediction upon the prairie. I was breathless, shivering with anticipation, as I came upon the horses grazing. And there was Sawyer, rubbing Whistler’s neck with his strong hands.

His hair was as golden as the sunlight and hanging to his shoulder blades. It had just the slightest natural ripple and I recalled the pleasure of stroking my fingers through its length. It was so much a part of him that I could not imagine him with shorter hair. Whistler shone in the sunlight, her beautiful hide gleaming as she nuzzled his chest with affection. His horse, birthed into his arms; she had carried him to the War and become the sole reason he continued willing himself to live, after. I loved her for all of those things. Somehow I knew Whistler had done all she could to keep him safe.

Sawyer turned to find me studying him in the sun, and he smiled with such love that I flew into his arms, again startling the horses as he lifted me close. I slid my arms joyfully around his neck, hugging him and holding him.

Against my hair he murmured, “Good morning.”

I kissed his scratchy, unshaven jaw, murmuring back, “Good morning. I knew you’d be out here.”

He rocked me side to side and said, “You feel so small and slim
. Fan anseo i mo lámha
.”

I smiled and shivered at the melodic Irish. I whispered back, “And what does that mean?”

Against my ear he translated, “Stay here in my arms.”

I clung even more tightly, saying, “I wish so for that. Would that I could spend the day in your arms.”

He nuzzled my neck with soft, slow kisses. I closed my eyes and tipped my head to give him better access, shivering as his stubble rasped against the sensitive skin there.

“Don’t stop, Sawyer,” I begged him in a whisper, tightening my arms. “Please, don’t stop.”

He groaned against my skin and whispered, “Don’t tempt me. It takes about everything I have to stop touching you, every time.”

I ran my hands over the ridges of muscle along the tops of his shoulders, hard as stone but so warm under my palms, as he tasted my neck until I moaned against him. He shivered and brought my mouth to his with such skill, such need, kissing me deeply and absolutely, rendering me weak and near senseless with longing. Both of us neglecting to consider that anyone could happen upon us.

“You are so incredibly beautiful,” he said, his voice low and hoarse with emotion as he held me to his chest, my feet above the ground. “You don’t know how my heart feels to look at you, to hold you in my arms.”

“Sawyer,” I said, trembling, cupping his face in my hands. His eyes were intense upon me. I told him, “I do know. When you look at me…when you touch me…when I even think of you touching me…everything inside of me leaps towards you.” I punctuated my words with kisses, unable to stop. He caught my chin in his mouth and suckled it gently, then ran his tongue over my throat to my earlobe, taking it between his teeth. Skeins of heated pleasure flowed along my skin wherever his lips, his tongue touched me. I tasted of him too, his neck and again his mouth. He breathed out in a rush, burying his face against me and holding me so close, surely nothing could ever force us apart.

The horses no doubt wondered what kept us so enraptured with one another; Whistler chose that moment to nudge her nose into our sides with a whooshing breath and I laughed, as Sawyer gently elbowed her away.

“Lorie!” Malcolm called, from the direction of the tents.

“Later,” Sawyer promised me, kissing me once more before letting my feet back to the earth. He noticed my bare feet and said, “Sweetheart, you’ll step on a rock, or something sharp.” His eyes grew more concerned. “There’s snakes where you can’t always spy them. You fall into rivers when I’m not near. I worry so, Lorie, you mean more to me than anything in the world.”

My heart beat fiercely in response. I told him, “You must promise me the same. When you’re out of my sight I can’t rest until I see you again, riding towards me on Whistler.”

One last kiss before we tore apart.

“Ride on the wagon with me today,” I implored.

He grinned in the effortless way that made me quiver with happiness. He said, rubbing Whistler’s nose, “Wild horses, even this wild horse, couldn’t stop me.”

If anyone
other than Boyd wondered why Sawyer again let Malcolm ride Whistler, it wasn’t apparent. Although I sensed a new wariness in Sawyer as he regarded Angus by the early day’s light. I hated that we harbored such a secret, the knowledge of such potential devastation. Far worse than that, I knew that Sawyer loved Angus, very much. I knew he had no wish to hurt him.

The three of them, Boyd and Gus and Malcolm, rode abreast for a time, until Malcolm called back in a wheedling tone, “Mightn’t we race a bit, Sawyer, please?”

I was seated to Sawyer’s left, a goodly distance between us, though we’d been stealing long looks, our eyes speaking as much as our words.

“Of course, kid,” he called to Malcolm. “If Fortune or Admiral feel they have it in them to beat my horse.”

Boyd turned lazily to regard us, shaking his head. He called back, “That’s tough words from a man on a wagon seat.”

Angus lifted his hat and resettled it, adding, “I’d say young Malcolm has the advantage in this case.”

Malcolm cried, “C’mon, boys, let’s have a run! We don’t care if we beat your pants off, do we, Whistler-girl?”

Boyd heeled Fortune as though to set her into a trot, but then looked back at his brother with a grin. Malcolm caught his intent and whooped, leaning into Whistler as Boyd kicked Fortune into a canter. Gus looked back at us and told Sawyer wryly, “I’ve you to blame for this,” before following after them.

The moment their backs were turned and disappearing into the distance, we were in each other’s arms, the reins falling from Sawyer’s hands as he caught me close and I all but fell over his lap in an attempt to be closer to him. My hat dropped behind us and into the wagon bed. We were fortunate that Juniper and Aces were both relatively well-behaved and continued plodding forward as we kissed and curled around one another, murmuring wordless sounds of love and longing. When the reins slipped enough to be in danger of falling beneath the wagon, we drew apart and Sawyer took them back into his hands. He laughed as he collected them, saying, “Good thing these two aren’t known to bolt.”

He arranged us so that I was tucked against his side, just as yesterday, and I snuggled against him, smoothing my fingers along his arm closest to me, bared by the rolled sleeve of his shirt. His forearms were long and lean, corded with muscle, lightly dusted with dark-blond hair. I imagined that similar hair covered his legs. I traced my fingertips over it, skimming along his warm skin as he shivered and ran the tip of his tongue in a teasing line over my temple, then kissed the same spot. I remained fascinated by everything about him, the way his wrists were held taut, his capable hands around the leather straps.

“Tell me a story about you,” I implored him softly, for this moment utterly content, blocking everything else from my mind.

He kissed me again, squeezing me close with his arm. He said, “I loved Christmas as a boy. Mama and Granny Alice would spend the week before making mince pies and apple pies, and Mama would use the bayberry candles. Just in December, otherwise we used the plain beeswax. But in December she lit the ones scented with bayberry. Just that scent reminds me of Christmastide, even still.” His voice took on the quality of remembrance, soft and deep. “Mama would hang the mistletoe and Daddy would always catch her there.”

“What did your daddy look like?” I asked, swept away into his story. I imagined James Davis looking much like Sawyer.

“Tall and strong, in my memory I am always looking up to see him. He was fair, and Granddaddy too, though he and Granddaddy were both bearded. I was, as a soldier. Can’t say I relish the look now. Mama was always making him laugh about something. Oh, they’d fight now and again, as Mama was hot-tempered. Once she took after him with a wooden spoon.” He laughed at the memory, a half-pained laugh that spoke of the sweetness of times past intermingled with the extremity of the loss. I moved my hands from his arm and slid them around his waist, resting my head upon his shoulder.

“What color were his eyes?” I asked, my voice soft, caught up in his words; I tried to imagine Sawyer with a full beard, as a soldier.

“Like mine,” he replied softly. “Sometimes when I see my reflection, I see my daddy looking back. I pray I am half the man he was. Lorie, he cared for us so well. I always knew I was loved, even when I misbehaved.”

“So few people know such love,” I whispered.

“You did, with your family, I can tell,” he said gently.

I nodded, a sudden jagged-edged lump in my throat. But I had no wish to cry.

He said, “If I could take away all of your pain I would, Lorie, no matter what it cost me.”

His words went straight to my heart. I shook my head, too choked with tears to answer. Instead I clung and he held me tightly. The sun was past noon, the air hot and windless, the grass whispering around us, insects buzzing and whirring. I gulped and he freed his right hand from the reins and smoothed it over my hair.

“Sawyer,” I whispered at last. “No, love, don’t say that. I wouldn’t let you take on more hurt.”

“I would in a heartbeat,” he insisted. “There is so much that pains you, so much that you’ve been through. And here I sit so happy that you just called me ‘love.’” There was such a note of wonder in his tone.

I smiled a little; the endearment had rolled off my tongue without a thought. He was my love in a way that I could never even begin to explain in words. The knowledge of it was beyond words, beyond articulation. I asked, “How would I say that in Irish? Teach me.”

He replied softly, “
Mo ghrá.
My love.”

I tried my hand at the syllables, which he had spoken low in his throat. “Sawyer,
mo ghrá
.”

He cuddled me closer and whispered back, “Lorie,
mo ghrá
.”

“I cherish everything you told me last night,” I said, shifting to see his face. “Thank you for that, for understanding what I told you. Sawyer, I know you told me not to worry, but I cannot help it.”

He enfolded my left hand into his, protectively. Studying my eyes steadfastly he said, “I won’t claim to be able to predict the future, but I know a couple of things for certain. First, you have my heart, Lorie Blake. Second, I mean to make you my wife.” The gold in his eyes glinted softly as his words filled me with quiet, overpowering joy. He said, “You are for me, and I belong to you. And that’s the way of it.”

“Oh, Sawyer,” I whispered, my throat swollen with emotion.

He hooked the reins over his right thigh and then used his free hand to caress my face. His thumb lingered on my bottom lip, which he traced before leaning to kiss me softly. He whispered against my lips, teasing me a little, “If you’ll have me, that is.”

I whispered back, “You know I will. I can’t imagine not having you, Sawyer, now that I’ve found you.”

“Come here, let me hold you,” he said, cradling me tightly against his side. “I spend the entire night longing to find an excuse to hold you in the daylight, any little excuse at all. I don’t mean to lose any precious time.”

I wrapped my arms around him, letting myself accept this gift, and we rode in silence for a few minutes. After a spell I said softly, “Last night you told me you once started to believe that existence meant nothing. I believed that for a long time, too. When I lived with Ginny…she made me change my name.”

“Is that what that bastard called you?” Sawyer asked. “Lila?”

I cringed instinctively at the remembrance of that name.

Sawyer said at once, “I will never speak it again, not ever. I could see what it did to you when he said such.” As though to himself, he muttered, “I should have killed him. I knew I should have.”

“Sawyer,” I admonished. “He wouldn’t have known I had a real name as it is.”

“Even still,” he said, and curled me closer.

“I just…” I trailed into silence, trying to determine how to best express my thoughts.

“Just what, sweetheart?” Sawyer asked.

“I never thought…I never imagined that I would be free of that place,” I said at last, and my eyes roamed out over the prairie, baking under the sun, a seemingly empty expanse, though I knew it teemed with life. I went on, “I figured I would die there eventually. Sawyer, I despise that it was always be a part of me, the person I had to be in order to survive there. I despised what I was forced to do.” The words were spilling forth like water over the side of a cliff. “And you are able to accept me, to see beyond that. I still almost cannot fathom it.”

“Lorie,” he said intently. “Never worry over such, promise me.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said. “But being there, the pain I suffered, taught me something too. If I hadn’t been at Ginny’s that night, if I hadn’t seen the three of you…”

“We were meant to be there. I can see just how you looked on those stairs. And that despicable woman…what she said to you…”

At first I couldn’t recall, but then Ginny’s words scissored back into my mind. My nipples, that she’d cut them off. Likely that had not been an empty threat. I shuddered at the memory. I said, “She was terrible. She…”

“Tell me,” he said softly. “Tell me, so that you may put it away from you forever.”

I imagined Deirdre, held her in my mind. At last I whispered, “I had one friend there. From the first day I lived at Ginny’s, she cared about me. After…” my vision clouded at the memories I did my best to keep coiled under rocks and nailed down beneath boards within my mind. But Sawyer’s arms around me, his compassion, gave me the strength to continue. I said, “After my first night, she came to me in the dawn and held me in her arms so that…I would stop shaking. For the first month I lived there, she held me sometimes, and I pretended that she was my mother, maybe a sister…”