Authors: Saundra Mitchell
The Springsweet (23 page)
"I'll be right back," he said, putting my hand on Epona's flank.
I was still unsteady on my feet, and though I was clearheaded enough to
want
to defy him, I was likewise sensible enough to refuse the urge. There was nothing gained in being contrary for contrary's sake. "I'll be right here."
Emerson headed inside, and I turned to take in the enormity of the fire around me. My nose stung a bit—the rain had pounded away the smoke, but wet remains had their own acid to them. After all, we made lye for our soap from water and wood ash.
Smoothing my skirts, I sighed at the senselessness of it. A whole prairie gone in one night. And yet, among the ashes, I noted the smallest of green shoots. The white horse had found them easily—unconcerned with what it all meant.
I started at a sudden crack. Jerking my head up, I saw motion in one of the windows, and glass glinting as it rained to the ground. Sharp voices rose up. I couldn't make them out, but I didn't need to.
They were angry; I was afraid. In spite of the trembling set loose in me, I ran to the house.
Though I hurried, I felt the world temper its pace. At the door, I took in the tableau in an instant. Emerson locked in struggle with a blond man. Broken glass. A ransacked cabin.
It was ruined. Soot coated every surface but the table. A leather bag lay open there, stuffed with a lantern, a few books, and a knife. I recognized the knife; I'd taken it once from Emerson, to clean rabbits for stew.
I caught a glimpse of Emerson's face as he twisted and then ... Royal Wakes'. My fear turned to fury. Robbing coaches wasn't enough for him. The coward had resorted to looting after a disaster.
They crashed into one of the walls. It threatened with a groan. A trickle of blood ran down Emerson's face. Royal struck again, the awful sound of flesh colliding with flesh too visceral and real.
I could take up the knife—I could. I screamed when they crashed into the opposite wall. Their bodies flowed together, one muslin shirt very much like another. I would never forgive myself if I stuck a blade into the wrong flesh. In truth, I wasn't sure I could forgive myself if I stuck it in the right flesh, either.
In a panic, I spun around, looking for something—anything—and then I saw it. Emerson's rifle lay in the soot, barely visible. I snatched it up by the barrel.
When I had a clear shot, I brought the stock down on Royal's head. A sickening crack filled the air. He dropped to the ground. Ash and dust puffed around him, stirred by his breath. But he moved not at all—he'd been a puppet, and I'd cut his strings.
Emerson stood there, mute in his surprise. I threw the rifle down and grabbed the bag from the table. "Come on! Come on!"
Coming around, Emerson snatched up the rifle and followed me outside. He dashed straight for Epona. It took but one step into the stirrup and he threw his leg over, the motion easy. Turning her around, he reached for me, but I brushed past.
Catching the white horse by its reins, I pulled myself up. I was a graceless, lumbering thing compared with the way Emerson handled a horse, but I managed all the same. Taking reins in hand, I geed the horse.
She was an arrow, flying fast and straight. It took only the gentlest touch to command her. I'm not sure how far we ran, but with every pounding step, my fear peeled away. Hesitation rattled from my bones; I made my own thunder. I was new and vibrant, drunk with audacity.
Epona caught up quickly, her hooves rumbling across the earth. Emerson had to raise his voice to be heard over our flight. "I thought you didn't handle arms!"
"That's hardly what I did," I called back.
"Now who's quibbling? Do you know what they do with horse thieves?"
"I have no idea!" I laughed, casting an irrepressible smile in his direction. "I don't plan to find out!"
Raising my face to the sun, I pulled off my bonnet and let the wind take my hair. The prairie blurred around us, a streak left in our wake. Kissed by sunlight and warmth, by everything possible, I whooped and sat high in my saddle.
I was alive, and I
wanted
to be alive until my time.
Epilogue
The end I'd expected in the West was a beginning after all. It was not until Emerson and I stopped for the night that I discovered how much of one.
Rifling through the mail in Emerson's saddlebag, I read missives from Mama and Papa and a few pretty notes from Mattie. They seemed so far away, hints of their perfumes and colognes on the pages. They were little scraps of Baltimore to tease my senses—but they no longer made me ache; I didn't yearn for that city by the bay.
Kissing Mama's letter, I tucked it away with the rest. Then I reached for the remaining envelope.
A chill came on fast when I saw the handwriting. It had once graced a hundred futures at the last slant of daylight. But that was impossible—it couldn't possibly be true. The letter inside illuminated nothing, it simply said:
Please come.
"Emerson," I said when I finally found my breath. Folding the letter in half, I looked to him. He was already drowsy, resting his head against the saddlebags and trying to fall asleep.
"Mmm?"
Rubbing a hand down his face, he held out a hand to me, beckoning me. His face was soft, clean now that we'd washed in a river, and unlined as he invited slumber. He was handsome and unmarred, and I wondered very much if I would trouble his brow if I spoke. I spoke nonetheless.
"I want to go to Chicago. Just for a little while."
When I leaned in, he took advantage. Pulling me to lie in his arms, he fixed me against his side and kissed my temple. The raw, rich scent of his skin surrounded me; his warmth lured like a siren to close my eyes and sleep awhile as well.
I pressed my knuckle into his ribs; not hard, just enough to get his attention. "Chicago, Em?"
"Whatever makes you happy, Zo."
He smiled, and didn't bother to ask why. And I was glad. There would be no explaining that I needed to see, with my own eyes, a dark miracle—
Amelia van den Broek, risen from the dead.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to...
My editor, Julie Tibbott, for taking the chance on these wild, elemental children-—her support and enthusiasm have lent more magic to
The Springsweet
than she knows.
Jennifer LaBracio, for all the marketing you can shake a stick at; Jennifer Groves, my very own publicity star, and the entire team at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt for turning words into beautiful, beautiful books.
My agent Jim McCarthy, for notes, for plans, and for those brilliant e-mails that neutralize my neuroses in a single blow.
Darlene Engleking from Engleking's Country Beef Shop, for selling me her gorgeous farm eggs and patiently answering questions about them as well.
Leah Hansen from Hansen Wagon and Wheel, for the detailed explanation of buckboards and how to attach them to horses.
Carrie Ryan, for keeping me sane when I most assuredly was not sane myself and knowing exactly when to make me cry.
Aprilynne Pike, the amazing, incredible, iPhone-at-the-gym-reading genius. I owe you at least 1/28th of my soul.
Sarah MacLean, for indulging me even when I horrify her, and R. J. Anderson, for laughing when I try not to horrify her.
Sarah Rees Brennan, my Sass Sr., who tells me books and movies, and pets my head, and quite possibly never sleeps.
Cheryl Renée Herbsman, for reading blind; Sarah Cross, for forgiving me Thomas; Sonia Gensler, for checking my Okie; Christine Johnson for telling me it wasn't the worst book in the world.
Rachel Hawkins, who I hope will now forgive me for whiffing the amazeballs in Decatur.
L. K. Madigan, for reading everything first; for the great emptiness I feel knowing that this was our last.
My Wendi, because she loves Zora the most (and me, too).
My Jason, for every sacrifice he's made for me and for our family-—you are a good, good man.
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