Soul of a Crow (31 page)

Sawyer exhaled slowly, as though unable at first to comprehend my words. His anger was still evident as he whispered, “I did not want you to tell them.”

“I know,” and my words were little more than a breath. I stopped only a few paces away from the cell.

“Do you know what your death would do to me?” Sawyer asked, and his tone was dangerous, his voice far more harsh than usual. When I did not immediately respond, he insisted, “
Do you?
”

My temper flared in the manner of the sun clearing a cloud bank on a day steeped in humidity, sudden and broiling. I said, with considerable heat, “Of course I do! I believed you dead in Missouri, Sawyer, and I will not go through that again!”

“
I will not allow you
—” he yelled, but I interrupted him, shouting, “I will do what
I have to do!
” Breathless anger cuffed me; I was shocked by how disposed I was to yell at him.

“You will not risk yourself!” he raged, advancing to the iron slats, gripping them tightly.

“How
dare
you tell me what to do!” Hot tears inundated my vision, boiling over onto my cheeks.

“I will when you do not listen to reason!”

“Sawyer…” and the anger leaked away with my tears. There was no satisfactory outcome to our argument; neither of us was willing to concede to the other, not regarding this matter. The stakes were too high.

He said, low and insistent, “Come here.”

We clung between the damnable irons, arranged in a lattice pattern, crisscrossing both vertically and horizontally, as they did over the window. Sawyer commandeered my face and kissed me, possessing my mouth. The taste of him, the strength and sensuality of him, so near and yet I could not fully embrace him—I moaned and pressed as close as I could.

“Lorie,” he breathed, kissing my eyes, my chin, jaws and neck; he went to his knees and I brought my breasts to his face, working swiftly to unbutton the top of my blouse, fumbling in my haste, at last parting it and allowing him access to my bare flesh, where he pressed his face, overcome. The iron was cold and unforgiving against my skin, but he was all heat, and so very welcome.

“Sawyer,” I gasped. “I love you. You do not comprehend
how much I love you
.”

“Lorissa Davis,” he said, harsh and intense, bracketing my waist, his chin between my breasts as he knelt while I stood. His hawk eyes burned in the darkness. He said, “
They will never take you from me again
.”

“Tell them the truth, Sawyer,” I begged, tears rolling over my face, dripping upon my bare collarbones. “Tell the judge the truth. We stand a chance—I believe we stand a chance.” A sob escaped before I could contain it, and his fingers tightened their protective grip.

He rested his cheek against my heartbeat and glided both hands possessively around my waist.

He said hoarsely, “Forgive my temper, Lorie, there is no rationality within me when I think of you being harmed. I lose all control I possess. I pray that we stand a chance, but you will not hang for me. No matter what happens, you will not hang for me.”

“Did they hurt you?” I whispered, smoothing my fingers repeatedly over the curve of his skull.

“They are only able to hurt me through you,” Sawyer said, and he was raw with emotion. He drew back so that he could see my eyes, and my heart jolted all over again.

“What did Yancy say to you that night?” I asked.

“We spoke very little on the ride north. He said nothing of what had occurred that night, in the clearing.” Even more determinedly, Sawyer asked, “Who shot at you?”

“Zeb,” I whispered, and a trembling moved upwards from my legs; Sawyer felt this. I explained miserably, “I shot at him, but I aimed wrong, and he shot back. Yancy told me that Zeb wishes to burn Rebel soldiers alive, because a group of them burned his sons, in the War. Oh God, Sawyer…he scares me so…”

“What else did he do to you?” Sawyer asked roughly. “He claimed all manner of despicable acts as we rode north. I would not allow myself to believe him, and even Yancy reprimanded him to be silent.”

“He would have used me until I was nearly dead, and I believe he would have killed me,” I whispered. “That was why I fled…” I gulped, before continuing, “I thought that if Jack shot me right then, it would be better than going with Zeb to his home…”

“They were taking you there?” Sawyer asked.

“Yes,” I whispered. “He was supposed to keep me away until after you'd been…” I choked out, “After you'd been hung…”

Sawyer bent lower and brought his face to my belly, cupping me around the backs of my hips. He kissed me there, so gently, before rising to his full height. He said, “I am so sorry I did not stop them from taking you. I am so sorry.”

“They shot Sable from beneath me…” I wept.

“Sable?” he questioned softly, stroking damp hair from my temples. He worked with gentle efficiency, buttoning my blouse, cradling my breasts with aching tenderness.

“The pony they gave me to ride,” I whispered, sheltered against him.

A knocking on the door, and startled, I bit the inside of my cheek.

“Mrs. Davis? You must come along,” Clemens said, but Boyd shouldered around him and stalked to my side.

“They's gonna let you before a judge,” Boyd said, with quiet confidence. “We told them the truth. An' I aim to see this through. They ain't gonna hang you.”

There was the slightest easing of distress within Sawyer; I felt it minutely, my cheek tucked to his heartbeat, as his to mine just earlier. I closed my eyes so that I might pretend I was not about to be separated from Sawyer.

“Thank you, for everything,” Sawyer said, wholeheartedly; I could feel the pace of his blood. “I know you'll watch over Lorie, while I cannot.”

“Mrs. Davis! Mr. Carter!” Clemens was agitated, poking his head around the jailhouse door, and Boyd chuckled, though quietly.

“That one's tetchy as a schoolmarm,” Boyd muttered. “We'll return in the daylight, old friend. An' you know I'll keep her safe, with my life.”

“Sawyer,” I whispered.

He knew, and held me closer still. He whispered, “Darlin', I will see you in the morning. And I will think of you every second until then.”

Boyd clasped Sawyer's outstretched hand, holding fast for a last second, and then we left with Clemens.

- 21 -

Whistler was waiting
in the corral at Tilson's homestead.

I climbed the split-rail fence, reaching for her, and she trotted over to me at once, seeking a pat or two, whooshing a loud breath against my side. I hugged her face, lavishing her with affection, my tears soaking into her hide. Even in the advancing darkness I recognized the understanding in her kind eyes, the sense of knowing she exuded. I kissed the white snip at the end of her nose and whispered, “I love you so. You kept him safe, didn't you? I won't let him die, I promise you.”

Whistler nickered; I knew she believed me. I leaned against her, this horse that had been born on my tenth birthday, though I would not know this fact until many years later. She had come into the world under Sawyer's observant eye in his daddy's livery stable when he was only sixteen, during the sweet, unaffected contentment of the years prior to War, and he raised her from that moment. She carried him through the hell of a conflict which dragged on longer than anyone could have foreseen, eventually to me, all the way from Tennessee across the wide Missouri prairies, and at last to the night of our handfasting.

My heart ached with fortitude, and purpose, and I said again, “
I promise you
.”

Malcolm ran from indoors and monkeyed beside me, curling around Whistler from the opposite side and laying his cheek against her, which she patiently allowed, shifting her back hooves in the way she had. Malcolm said, “Tilson told us the news.”

I whispered, “Oh, Malcolm. It will be all right.” I spoke these words to reassure him and to simultaneously comfort myself. Malcolm hopped from the fence and wrapped his arms around my waist, burying his face against my ribs. I stepped gently down and embraced him fully, petting his hair, kissing his cheek; he held my braid the way he'd cradled the stems of the flowers he and Sawyer picked for me to carry at our handfasting—with utmost care, and tenderness.

“Ain't nothing feels right without you an' Sawyer,” Malcolm murmured, clinging as a barnacle to a ship's hull. “Lorie-Lorie, don't go away again, please never go away again.”

I inhaled familiar scents—that of ripe, sunbaked earth at our feet, clover growing tall and fragrant somewhere near, manure from the corral, dinner wafting on the faintest stir in the air from the direction of the warmly-lit house, where Rebecca, Clemens, Tilson, and Rebecca's boys could be heard, talking over the top of one another in the pleasant, half-exasperated way of families. The sky was a rich indigo and pinpricked by stars; I caught sight of the old crescent, a perfect, creamy cup to cradle the new moon—Deirdre would have said that meant a fair day on the morrow.

The new moon in the embrace of the old
, she'd whisper.

Tonight I did not hate the waning sliver of a moon with such a violent fervor.

Malcolm's breath, soft on my cheek, was tinged with lemon.

I whispered, “Had you lemon candy earlier?”

A small sound issued from him, a muffled laugh, which tickled me. He drew away and grinned, saying, “Yep. An' guess what? I near forgot to tell you!”

“What's that, sweetheart?”

“It's my birthday,” the boy said. “I'm thirteen years this day. Mrs. Rebecca has a calendar, an' so I know for certain. Boyd can't boss me no more. She done made me a special dinner.”

“What's that I hear?” asked Boyd, coming across the yard. He was trailed by one of Rebecca's boys and slowed to accommodate the little one's pace. As they walked, Cort tugged on Boyd's shirt, jabbering at him; Boyd ruffled the boy's hair and said something that made Cort giggle.

“I ain't gotta listen to you no mores!” Malcolm proclaimed joyfully, then yelped and squirreled away as Boyd attempted to curl him into a headlock.

“Dinner's ready!” Cort said, bouncing near my elbow, and I smiled at him; like most youngsters, he remained in perpetual motion. He resembled his mother a great deal; Rebecca's beautiful hazel eyes peered quite plainly from his face. Cort announced, “Mama made a cake!”

“We got more'n one reason to celebrate this night, ain't we?” Boyd said, before successfully harnessing Malcolm about the neck. To his little brother, he invited, “You's free to quit obeying me when you can escape a solid hold.”

“Lemme go!” Malcolm yelped, landing rabbit punches against Boyd's ribs, to no effect. Cort giggled and dodged them, then shrieked with laughter as Boyd shifted fluidly, releasing Malcolm and slinging Cort over his back, carrying him towards the house, upside-down.

“The sound of boys playing in the yard does my old heart good,” Tilson rumbled, coming outside as well. Silhouetted against the lantern light in the door, he appeared statuesque, tall and imposing—he could almost have been Sawyer, or a man related to my husband, perhaps a father or uncle. And his voice, with its echo of Cumberland County, of home. I found myself willing, however rashly, to trust this stranger, just as I'd been compelled to trust Rebecca.

Tilson leaned back at the waist and commented, “My, but it's a fine night, ain't it?” He ambled across the dooryard and presented his arm to me, asking next, “May I escort a lady to dinner?”

I obligingly took his elbow and saw his teeth flash in a grin. He said, “It's a pleasure, Mrs. Davis.”

“Thank you kindly,” I said.

“We'll take a leisurely pace,” he decided. “As the evening is so fine.”

“It is,” I agreed, almost shyly, and Tilson patted my hand companionably.

We ambled behind the others on the way to the house, and Tilson said quietly, “Once I had me four fine boys an' a baby girl.”

Somehow his gruff voice lent the words an additional quality of wistfulness; I found myself looking up at him as he continued speaking.

“I loved them more'n I can rightly explain. A part of me always wondered if it weren't downright foolish to love anyone that much, but I was a fool for them little ones. They bust up my heart with loving them, an' their mama, my Adeline. She gave me five blessed children. We lost our little Ina Rose when she wasn't but one, an' I thought I couldn't grieve harder'n I did back then.”

He paused to draw a sigh, as I studied his imposing profile, wordless as he offered to me these confidences. He continued softly, “But my boys grew tall an' strong. My youngest, my Bridger, weren't but seventeen when the shots was fired at Sumter that cursed spring. All of them, Blythe, Amon, Justus an' Bridger, were a-fired to join the Cause. Couldn't stop 'em, an' I respected their spirit, I did. I joined up to keep my boys safe. An' not a one but Blythe survived that godforsaken conflict, Mrs. Davis, an' their daddy a goddamn physician. My eldest son ain't fit to live with, since. I ain't seen him in near three years, the last of my boys.”

Ahead of us, Boyd, Malcolm, and Cort had entered the house; I could hear Rebecca scolding all of them for bumping the table with their wild roughhousing. Tilson and I stopped walking at the same moment. A pair of brown bats fluttered in the sky directly above.

“Where is your son now?” I whispered.

“The Territories south of Kansas, last I heard,” Tilson said. He lifted his chin and appeared to be studying the heavens. He said, “I ain't got so much as a reason to believe that Blythe is still living, but I swear on my soul that I'd sense it if he left this Earth before me, I truly do, Mrs. Davis.” He admitted, “The way you spoke for your man this eve reminded me something fierce of my wife, my Adeline. She loved me in such a way, an' God knows I didn't always deserve it. Had someone tried to hang me back when she was living, they'd a-been forced to get past her first.” And he chuckled, the sound colored with winsome nostalgia.

For no other reason than simple instinct, I rested my cheek upon his arm, however briefly, and without guile, and then, as a gentleman to a formal dinner, Tilson led the way inside.

“Lorie,” Rebecca said, coming at once to me. “I am ever so grateful at the news.”

“Thank you,” I said, realizing she still believed that I was kin to Boyd and Malcolm, and had not been informed of my revelation before the others, at Tilson's office. Impulsively, I leaned and kissed her cheek and though her eyebrows lifted in surprise, a sweet smile overtook her features.

“Come, dear Lorie, we've cake in honor of young Malcolm,” Rebecca said, directing me to the chair that Clemens had politely withdrawn.

Rebecca had indeed baked a cake, rich with walnuts and cinnamon, frosted with thick cream; it waited in a tin pan on the sideboard, tempting as the flicker of clear creek water to sweating skin. We crowded about the small wooden table positioned beneath the central ceiling beam, everyone's elbows in each other's way, talking of what had occurred this evening, abridging details as necessary for the little boys. Rebecca was in agreement that Judge Hamm would hear us out when he arrived in Iowa City.

“Leverett Quade is no one's fool, but not an unreasonable man, as I am certain you have realized,” Rebecca said, seeming not to remain still for more than a breath, her capable hands buttering bread and passing serving dishes, nudging aside her son's roving fingers when he attempted to steal a swipe of the frosting. I watched Rebecca as discreetly as I was able as she spoke of the marshal, attempting to determine a deeper sense of her feelings for the man. She had quickly parried the subject of Quade's courtship the day of our first meeting, though perhaps that was the result of simple embarrassment at her son's forthright words.

“Yancy is the one needs convincing, foremost,” Boyd said. “What do you know of this man, Tilson?”

Boyd sat at the foot of the table, Tilson the head; Clemens was to his uncle's right, while I was to his left. Rebecca sat beside me, Malcolm directly across, feeding bits of food to his gray kitten, the little boys competing for his attention. The knot in my stomach had eased with the relief of knowing we were not utterly helpless, and I found that I was able to eat.

“Not a great deal,” Tilson answered in response to Boyd's question, clapping a second helping of boiled potatoes to his plate. “Yancy's on circuit here, every few months. I ain't had a run-in with him, nor that big fella Zeb Crawford, but I aim to have a word with them tomorrow. You're planning the same, ain't you, Carter?”

“That I am,” said Boyd. “I got words, real specific-like, for the both of them.”

Clemens said, “As have I. I was most troubled by your accounts this evening, Mrs. Davis.”

“Where are they now?” I asked, attempting to restrain the urge to cast my eyes about the room and into the darkness outside. Merely the thought of Zeb caused fearful sweat to form along my spine.

“Yancy is within city limits, I am certain,” Clemens said. “I imagine him the type to prefer the comforts of the hotel, while Zeb, from what I am able to deduce, may very well be bedded down in an empty stall in the livery. Or perhaps he has left town. I am uncertain of his whereabouts.”

“Do you believe Sawyer is safe in the jailhouse?” I asked, suddenly considering the possibility that he was not. “What if—”

“It is a secure building,” Clemens assured me. “And either Billings or I am within reasonable distance each night. Billings is presently on duty, but I plan to sleep at the office, as is my habit during weekdays, and I promise I shall check in on Mr. Davis before I retire.”

“In town limits, a man's less likely to take action,” Tilson said. “I ain't saying it's impossible, but a man's perspective is different in a town. He considers his actions more closely when there's the possibility of being observed, and caught. Your good man is safe, I do believe, Mrs. Davis.”

I looked to Boyd, who nodded and then assured me, “I would sit out front of it, if I thought otherwise, Lorie-girl.”

Clemens addressed Rebecca next, saying, “I invited Leverett to dinner, but he asked me to relay to you that he would call tomorrow evening, if that suits you.”

Rebecca's movement stalled for the first time since we'd all been seated. Instead of replying, she only nodded.

“Will he bring flowers, like last time?” Cort asked his mother. Before she could respond, he informed us, “He brings flowers for Mama near every time he comes,” and I found myself struggling to imagine the incongruous picture of stern-faced, businesslike Quade astride his horse and bearing a bouquet.

“Hold your tongue, boy,” Tilson scolded, though he softened the words by winking at his great-nephew.

I had only by chance been looking Boyd's way at the start of this exchange, and though I could not interpret his thoughts as I could Sawyer's, I was quite adept at reading his face. The emotion present there was not one which I could have exactly articulated; I saw his gaze flicker briefly but intently to Rebecca, whose chair was angled in such a way that she would have had to turn her head to look directly at him. And then, quite suddenly, she did—though only for a heartbeat, before turning her gaze to me.

“I apologize. Here we talk of trivial things, when your exhaustion must be extreme,” Rebecca said; I wondered if I was perhaps reading too much into the slight scald on her cheeks.

“We are indebted to you,” I told her. “Please do not apologize, not for a thing.”

“We ain't had such good company as yours in a long while,” Tilson said, with an unmistakable glint in his eyes; I wondered if he'd intended to subtly jab at Marshal Quade with this statement.

“Boy, you oughtn't to have that critter at the table,” Boyd said cantankerously, abruptly directing his focus upon Malcolm, who was quietly feeding scraps to the gray kitten, cuddled on his lap.

“Aw,” Malcolm wheedled. “He likes being at my side,” but he gamely returned the animal to the wooden crate near the woodstove; immediately it stood on its back legs to peek over the edge.

“You haven't named him yet,” Cort reminded Malcolm, and the three boys took up what was certainly a previous conversation, discussing a variety of options.