Soul of a Crow (5 page)

An inexorable beat of desire pulsed within me and he recognized that I was rendered momentarily speechless. I elbowed him, pretending irritation, and his grin deepened; well he knew the need for him that burned inside of me, even without my speaking it aloud.

“Might we grow morning glories along the southern wall of our barn?” I asked, attempting nonchalance. I needn't close my eyes to picture my childhood home, but I did. The sun created shifting golden patterns against the backsides of my eyelids but I saw only the rolling valley in which Daddy's ranch had been tucked as dearly as a beloved child to a warm bed. Mama loved flowers in all shades of blue, from richest indigo to palest cerulean. The small, joyous trumpets of the morning glories and true-hued gentian salvia had been among my favorite of the blossoms.

“Of course. Morning glories grew along the livery stable,” Sawyer remembered. His father had run the Suttonville livery all of Sawyer's life—he, Ethan, and Jeremiah had learned the trade, and that of smithing, from their youths. The business had been looted and subsequently burned to the ground over the course of the War; only Sawyer had been left to claim the meager leavings upon returning home in 1865.

In the years between then and now, he sold the remaining equipment in order to provision himself for the journey north from Tennessee; I knew he kept the horseshoe his grandfather, the elder Sawyer Davis, had carried with from England and that subsequently always hung over any bellows upon which he conducted his smithing. In addition to this, Sawyer retained his father James's iron tongs and hammer. He'd told me he could not bear to part with these vestiges of his old life, which he so dearly associated with the menfolk who taught him his craft, who instilled within him a sense of appreciation for their work. Sawyer, like his father and grandsire before him, loved horses especially, and I had yet to see any horse that did not respond to his voice.

“I know the basics of birthing foals, but I would that you teach me to properly shoe a horse,” I said, as I thought of his family's trade.

“I will teach you whatever you wish, though that is heavy work, and you are so slightly built, however brave,
mo mhuirnín mhilis
,” he said. With quiet vehemence, he added, “I despise the thought of bruises on your body.”

“I know,” I acknowledged softly; not long ago, my body had borne severe bruising. “Though, occasional injury is inevitable, eventually. I mean to ride Whistler every day, now that I feel up to it. I've missed it so.”

“I mean to ride with you,” he said. “It is such a pleasure. I am thinking of that first afternoon.”

I recalled the unexpected beauty of that day, when Sawyer allowed me the privilege of riding his horse; he had joined me, on Juniper, and together we'd cantered them over the prairie, talking and racing, by turns. I admitted, “I realized I was finally seeing the Sawyer about whom Gus spoke so fondly.”

He said, “I was not bold enough to tell you, not that day, that I felt such joy simply having you at my side.”

“I mean to stay by your side,” I whispered, tears prickling at the edges of my eyes.

Reading my thoughts, as he was so inclined to do, he said tenderly, “I pray that in time we will have a house overrun with our children, and a corral with our horses.”

I repeated his words, “For certain.”

“My childhood would have been a different thing without Eth and Jere,” Sawyer said. “And without the Carters. I mean for our children to know the love of family, of friends and siblings. God willing, our sons will never leave home as soldiers.”

“Wouldn't it be lovely if Boyd found a wife within the year? His children would be raised with ours,” I mused. I speculated, teasingly, “She would need to be possessed of a
very
good-natured spirit, to put up with his.”

“Boyd spoke often of a wife when we were soldiers, though in our youth he was fickle,” Sawyer remembered. “Back home, before the War, he favored a new girl every other week or so. But he's much changed now, and I know he longs for a family to call his own.” He grinned as he added another detail to my description, “A patient wife for him.”

“Patient, yes,” I agreed, and then, unable to deny the ages-old habit, I added dutifully, “Synonyms include:
tolerant, serene, unflappable
.”

“
Forbearing
,” he finished with a scholarly intonation, teasingly nudging my shoulder; I had told him of the way Mama favored the thesaurus for my daily lessons.

“Oh, that's a particularly good one. I hadn't thought of that,” I said.

“I find myself imagining our little ones at your knee, darlin', learning from you,” he said softly.

“A journal,” I said, on sudden inspiration. “I should very much like a journal, if there is one to be had. And someday I will read it aloud to them.”

“I will do my best to find you one,” Sawyer promised.

The scattering of buildings on the central street came into view on the horizon, dust swirling beneath the passage of feet, booted and shod alike, rising lazily into the hot air and creating a thin haze. The river glinted like polished cobalt along the eastern edge of the town; I knew that two rivers converged here, the Des Moines and the Mississippi. We would shortly discontinue our course along the Mississippi and for a time leave behind the giant, swiftly-flowing river we had traveled alongside since Missouri, to follow the Iowa River instead. We would cross the northern border of Iowa and travel well into Minnesota before rejoining the Mississippi again, when it hooked back in a westerly direction to lead us to our eventual destination, the homestead of Boyd and Malcolm's uncle, Jacob Miller.

I spied Malcolm racing Aces our way, dust lifting in clouds behind them as Malcolm let his horse run, bowed low over the animal's sleek brown neck. Whistler nickered and snorted as they drew near, dancing on her tether—I knew she longed to gallop as badly as I longed to be atop her back, clinging to her mane and feeling the wind scrape my hair into a tangled mess, the ground a blur alongside her flying hooves.

“Preacher's on circuit! He ain't in town!” the boy informed in a shout as Aces flashed past the wagon; yards behind us, Malcolm slowed him to a walk and then trotted back to us, flushed and breathless with the exertion of riding so fast. He brought Aces to my side of the wagon and kept pace as disappointment at this news flooded my heart.

“Next town,” Sawyer murmured into my ear.

Malcolm was wide-eyed with excitement, all but bouncing on the saddle. Aces was tall and high-strung; like most of the horses I had ever known, he responded to his rider's moods instinctively, and snorted at Malcolm's antics.

“They's got berry pie an' bags of marbles, an' a tobacconist sells outta the dry-goods store,” the boy prattled, and I smiled at him with love. Sawyer regarded him with a similar expression.

“For having recently arrived, you surely seem to know a great deal about the place,” he remarked to Malcolm, teasing him, though Malcolm did possess an uncanny ability at unearthing both gossip and secrets. Presumably this was because he was equal parts observant and earnest; people grew loose-jawed around him.

“I done rode its length three times aw'ready,” Malcolm explained cheerfully. He withdrew a slim wooden stick topped with crystalized sugar from the pocket of his trousers, blew dust from it, frowned when this did not prove enough, and then rubbed it briskly on his thigh before popping it into his mouth. His left cheek bulged like a pocket gopher's. His eyes went wide and he informed me, “I got you one, too, Lorie-Lorie!”

So saying, he dug into the leather haversack looped over his torso, its pouch dangling near his waist, extracting a bundled handkerchief. He unrolled this and produced another stick, which he leaned to place into my hands. It looked a little worse for the wear, but I could hardly refuse this offering. To Sawyer he explained, “I only had me the one penny, or I woulda got you one. You wanna lick of mine?” and he held it out with utter sincerity.

Sawyer said, “Thank you kindly, but I'll have a taste of Lorie's instead.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” I told Malcolm and gamely took a lick. It was sarsaparilla flavored, sticky-sweet on my tongue; I nearly drooled. I informed Sawyer, “I
did
intend to share with you.”

Sawyer leaned over to collect, using his teeth to anchor the stick and then sitting straight. He crunched a loud bite and subsequently broke off over half the candy. He said, “Much obliged.”

“Give it back!” I ordered, laughing as he ducked away from my reaching hands.

“Oh, no,” he teased, his words distorted by the mouthful. He added, “Sweet Jesus, it's been a long time since I've tasted rock candy.”

“You ain't being no gentleman!” Malcolm yelped, but these words had scarcely been uttered before he heeled Aces, too excited to ride at a steady pace for long. Over his shoulder, he called, “Hurry along, you twos!”

Sawyer pulled the stick from his mouth and said, “I know exactly, now that I think of it. Fourth of July, 1858, ten years ago this summer. Just a boy of fourteen years I was.”

“It's been every bit as long for me,” I nagged, reclaiming the treat and tucking it into my cheek, reminded of the way men plugged their lower lips with tobacco.

“You eat it, darlin',” Sawyer said, with teasing magnanimity. “I'll content myself with your kisses, which are far sweeter.”

“Flatterer,” I muttered, elbowing his side again, though I truly loved the way he complimented me; I had never known that words could cause my stomach to feel so buoyant, as a flower petal carried on a gentle evening breeze.

The wagon rumbled into town, which was predictably quiet on a cloudless weekday; likely most of the people within many miles farmed for their living. We saw horses tethered to hitching posts and several buckboards, whose drivers lifted hands in what seemed to be friendly greetings. Still, I shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden seat, my tension increasing as we passed two small saloons to our right. Despite their peaceful outward appearance, I recalled all too well what occurred behind those batwing-style doors and up a flight of stairs. Sawyer's observant gaze noted the proximity of these places and he intertwined our fingers, reassuring me.

In Missouri, when Angus was still alive, we agreed it would make the most sense to let people believe that Boyd and Malcolm were my brothers; this arrangement would allow a respectable, reasonable explanation for why an unmarried woman was traveling with four single men. Angus rightly assumed that rumors would abound at even the slightest notion of the truth (that of my former existence as a whore), and so concocted this relationship between Boyd, Malcolm, and me; we decided before reaching Iowa that we would continue relying upon this fabrication until Sawyer and I could be properly married.

“There's Boyd,” Sawyer said, nodding towards the hitching rail before the dry-goods store. Fortune was tethered there, appearing to doze in the sun; Boyd was surely inside, making purchases. The words
National Union Republican Candidates
caught my eye, from a large red and blue campaign poster tacked near the window frame, along with the images of General Grant and his stern-faced running mate, Schuyler Colfax. It would be the first election in which former Confederates would be allowed, conditionally, to vote. I had overheard many such discussions, even during my time at Ginny's; after all, it had been scarcely two months since Johnson's near-impeachment in May and the autumn election was on everyone's mind.

“Do you think Grant will become President?” I asked, nodding at the poster.

Sawyer followed my gaze and fell momentarily still; conversely, I sensed the fast-moving flow of his thoughts, as a springtime creek over rocks, deceptively smooth beneath the surface—one wrong step, and a sharp, hidden edge could open a gash deep and painful, blood to tint the clear water red. As such were his memories of the War, most of which he had not yet spoken, and I understood well the urge, however futile, to bury away the darkness.

“It is likely,” he said. “He has restored the Union. I cannot speak from experience, but I understand he is a commanding presence, and a strong leader. This country could benefit from both qualities.”

“You do not believe a new Congress will join forces against him, as they did with Johnson?” I asked, thinking of the daily circular in St. Louis,
The Missouri Democrat
, a copy of which was often tucked behind the bar at Ginny's.

“I believe Congress would welcome Grant,” Sawyer said. “And as much as it pains me to say, I am ever more grateful to be leaving behind Tennessee altogether.”

“I have not been there in almost three years,” I acknowledged, on a sigh.

“Someday we will return there together, Lorie-love. We will bring our grandchildren, and show them where we began.”

I leaned my cheek again upon his upper arm.

A few dozen yards down the dusty road, I could see Malcolm on Aces, leaning forward over the saddle horn and talking to a boy close to his own age, who stood on the ground in front of a small wooden building with a jutting overhang; hooks anchored to its underside were burdened with hanging baskets of blooming flowers, and I was charmed.

Sawyer parked the wagon in the small alleyway between buildings and said, “Let us see what they have in the way of heavy material, fit for the cold.”

“My clothing is not well-provisioned for winter,” I agreed. We had many times marveled at the descriptions of the winter months in the Northern states that Jacob Miller included in his letters. Though Tennessee was often cold, the winter of 1863 into 1864 being the coldest in the last decade, there was never significant snowfall in the county in which we had been raised. Jacob wrote of crafting snowshoes, of sleighs with runners and long, dark nights, their cabin insulated by thick, blanketing drifts of snow. I thought of something else lacking in my wardrobe, and said, “And a corset. I am not well-provisioned in that regard, either.”