Soul of a Crow Read online

  “Sawyer, your face,” Gus said quietly.

  I was rendered wordless, hands braced on my knees. Another round of nausea engulfed me, though surely there could be nothing left for my stomach to expel. I could smell bile, and blood.

  Boyd said, “Jesus Christ, we oughta ride after an’ kill them other two.”

  Gus shook his head, I could see from the corner of my gaze.

  Boyd insisted, “We oughta, I feel it. I feel it, strong.”

  Gus said firmly, “No, let it go. Let us ride, boys, we cannot remain here. Jesus, we’d be hung.”

  Boyd came near and caught up my knife, wiping it clean on his trousers. He said, low, “Let’s go, old friend. Let’s go now.”

  Together we grabbed the heels of the dead Federal and dragged him through the debris of the woods and into the cover of the cedars, before we rode out.

  The crow remained amid the tree trunks, watching, its sleek black wings hunched as it sat sullenly and, for that night, silently let us go.

  - 1 -

  I narrowed my left eye to a slit, taking careful aim; I did not intend to miss this shot. The last two rabbits I drew a bead upon were little more than startled at the echoing report of the gunfire, leaving me with a sore shoulder and ringing ears, not to mention wasted ammunition, rather than fresh meat. Merely the prospect of a spitted rabbit roasted to a juicy crisp over our cookfire was motivation enough to continue in the frustrating endeavor of hitting such a fast-darting target.

  “Steady,” Sawyer murmured, his voice scarcely more than a breath. Though he was armed with his squirrel rifle, he carried it loosely in the crook of his right elbow, its long barrel directed at the ground three feet before us. He could have easily taken the animal with one shot, I knew, but he refrained, patiently allowing me the practice. I released a slow breath, a trickle of sweat slipping wetly between my breasts. It was thickly overcast and had grown increasingly humid, the heavens quilted with fat-bellied clouds, promising objectionable weather before long. I scarcely formed the thought before a cold drop flicked my ear, and then several more my left cheek, tilted slightly upwards above the rifle’s metal sights.

  Do not be distracted. You have been practicing for this, I reminded myself, and centered all focus upon the creature. The prairie, cloaked in dour grays this day, the grasses appearing all the more vividly green against such a drear backdrop, receded to the distant horizon. The small midges that seemed to adore flying into one’s nostrils and eyes, the increasing patter of rain, the restless grumble of thunder to the west—all were silenced and stilled. By contrast, the rabbit’s outline grew sharp, the bunched energy of its long hind legs, the slender peaks of its ears, the single watching eye, each etched in charcoal by the intensity of my focus.

  Squeeze the trigger, rather than pull, I heard Angus instruct.

  And so I did.

  The stock punched hard, as I anticipated, sending me quick-stepping backwards despite having braced for the impact; Sawyer reached instinctively, cupping his free hand beneath my right elbow and keeping me stable. A flock of blackbirds hidden by the tall grass were disrupted by the shot, now furiously taking wing into the pewter sky, fanning out like spread fingers. I could not hear Sawyer over the ringing in my ears, but the smile upon his face indicated that my aim proved true; it was the first time I had struck something other than a tin can, and I felt an answering smile bloom over my face.

  He leaned closer to me and his mouth formed the words, Good shot!

  Together, we hurried to claim the prize before the rain grew heavier, and Sawyer bent to catch up the creature by its ears. My hearing at least partially restored, his words were only slightly muffled as he said admiringly, “Clean through the head.”

  “I hit it!” I rejoiced, perhaps disproportionately pleased at this truth, but proud of myself nonetheless. The squirrel rifle in my grip once belonged to Angus, and was a heavy firearm, but I neatly shifted it to my elbow so that I could take the rabbit from Sawyer.

  “It’s messy,” he warned, and indeed my fingers grew slick with blood as I accepted it from his grasp.

  “I cannot wait to show Malcolm,” I said, refusing to behave squeamishly. I had gleaned from my time in Missouri many invaluable lessons, far more demanding than any imparted upon me at my mother’s knee, in the luxury of a loving home. Here in the wilds it became quickly apparent that learning required the completion of tasks at one point in my life unfathomable; the result of refusing to acknowledge this was the inability to survive, a truth as simple as that.

  If there was one thing I had learned, with great humility, it was how to survive.

  “He’ll be in a tizzy if you bagged a rabbit and he did not,” Sawyer recognized with amusement, and even in the darkening, rainy gloom of the afternoon and the shadow of his hat brim, his eyes glinted with golds and greens, captivatingly beautiful, and dearer to me than I could have put into words.

  “I hope he did, as I intend to eat this one entirely myself,” I said, only half in jest.

  My appetite had been poor of late, and welcome hunger now grumbled in my belly, echoing the strengthening thunder. The words barely cleared my lips when Sawyer silently held out his arm, indicating that I halt, bent swiftly to one knee and raised the rifle with a movement as graceful as a heron lancing a fish. Rising just as effortlessly to his feet, he jogged to retrieve the second rabbit; upon his return, he held it aloft and said, “I was just making certain that you’re able to, Lorie-love.”

  Whistler and Admiral were tethered in copse of cottonwoods fifty paces east, closer to the river and our camp. Sawyer and I had not ridden far, as it was still difficult for me to sit the saddle for long periods of time; in the days since we traveled at a deliberately slow pace north from Missouri, having cleared the Iowa border just yesterday, I had been content to ride on the wagon seat. Today was only my second attempt at horseback, and to my considerable relief it had not proven painful; I’d not shed any additional blood since miscarrying nearly a fortnight past, and the saddle burns welted upon my inner legs healed over remarkably well.

  All of the irreparable damage was emotional, the toll exacted for my having survived when Angus and his unborn child had not. Only a wooden marker, painstakingly crafted by Sawyer and Boyd, gave a hint as to the reality of the man who lay beneath the ground, the brave and kind man who had recognized me as the daughter of a fellow solider, who had subsequently insisted I leave behind, as of that very night, the indignities of my life as a whore and accompany him and his companions on their journey north. Angus saved me from the horror of my existence at Ginny Hossiter’s, and no words could effectively convey the enormity of my gratitude.

  As I had dozens of times and in various incarnations since riding away from Angus’s body and the wooden cross Sawyer constructed for the child, I thought, Forgive me, dear Gus. Please, forgive me. You would have done right by me, this I know to the bottom of my heart. You did not deserve to die in such a terrible way. Please forgive me. I know that you will look after our child in the Beyond.

  “Storm’s rolling in!” Sawyer said, moving closer to me as we hastened our strides, reaching the cottonwoods and their meager shelter as a towering thunderhead unleashed a torrent perhaps a half-mile to the west. Whistler and Admiral danced on their tethers, agitated by the rapidly-advancing storm, the whites of their eyes visible, indicating their unease. As we neared, Whistler nickered in clear relief, nudging at Sawyer’s side as he hurried to unwind her lead line, while I tugged free Admiral’s. The big dappled gray tossed his head, nervously side-stepping, but I held firmly and he stilled.

  “Look there!” I cried, and could not help but pause, one boot in the stirrup, captivated by the sheeting rain; it appeared a near-solid mass of roiling silver, a sight as eerie as it was impressive. A blinding bolt of lightning erupted in a crackling pulse, striking the ground where we had only minutes before been standing, and my spine twitched.

  “It’s not safe beneath these trees!” Sawyer shouted, and he too
k the rifle from me, securing it in the saddle scabbard before replacing his own, then helped me atop Admiral; I was wearing Malcolm’s trousers, and could have taken the saddle with no assistance, but Sawyer was protective, more so than ever since our ordeal in Missouri, and made certain I was settled before mounting Whistler with his usual easy grace. Together we cantered across the prairie, each clutching a rabbit, arriving just ahead of the rain. To the east of our small camp the Mississippi rolled at a clip, crested with white arrows of waves as the wind blew fitfully. Fortune and Aces High, along with Juniper, were all three staked within sight, indicating that Boyd and Malcolm were here.

  “Twister?” Boyd yelled in our direction, competing with the wind to be heard as he emerged from his and Malcolm’s wall tent, twenty paces away. He stood straight and shaded his vision against the gale, looking westward.

  “Take these and hurry inside,” Sawyer leaned near to tell me, and while I would have helped him secure the horses, I gathered the game and did as he asked instead, recognizing concern in the way his eyebrows were knit.

  “We didn’t catch a glimpse of one!” I called to Boyd as I neared, the ground already growing muddy beneath my boots.

  “You bag them hares?” he asked, nodding at the limp creatures in my grasp.

  “One of them!” I said proudly.

  Malcolm’s freckled face appeared in the pie-shaped opening of his and Boyd’s tent, and the boy called, “I shot me a foolbird, Lorie! You shoulda seen it!”

  He used the common name for prairie fowl, plump and tasty birds with less sense than chickens, and I called, earning a grin from him, “I plan to eat it!”

  “We ain’t gonna eat nothing but day-old biscuits ’less this storm clears out before nightfall!” Boyd said. He told me, “We’ll skin them critters when it blows over.”

  I nodded agreement and ducked into the tent I shared with Sawyer, lacing all but the bottommost entrance tie. I stowed the rabbits near the edge of the canvas farthest from our bedding, laying them neatly atop the flattened grass, and then stepped on the heels of my boots, one after the other; once barefooted, I shucked free of my wet clothes and shivered into a dry shift, one of two that I possessed, next wrapping into my shawl. The wind increased in strength and the rain in tempo, thunder detonating so near our tent I pictured it hovering only an arm’s length above as I knelt beside the small porcelain wash basin and scrubbed the blood from my hands. To my relief, I heard Sawyer returning after the next shattering blast of thunder; I listened as he hastily stowed our saddles beneath the awning.

  “You’re chilled,” was the first thing he said upon entering, re-lacing the ties against the surly weather before unceremoniously stripping his boots, wet shirt, suspenders and trousers, leaving only the lower half of his union suit, a thin garment rather in need of repair. I had dried my hands but not yet lit our lantern, and reached wordlessly for him. He grinned in immediate response, catching me close and taking us at once to the rumpled bedding, where he promptly drew the quilt and snuggled me to his bare chest. Despite having just come in from the rain he was warm as an ember, and issued the low, throaty sound of contentment to which I had grown blissfully accustomed, declaring, “Much better.”

  “Worlds better,” I agreed, closing my eyes, thankful beyond measure; there would never come a time, even if fortune was kind enough to allow us the rest of our lives together, that I would take for granted the feeling of being held secure in his arms.

  “It was a good shot,” he said again, gently stroking my hair. Though I had neatly braided its length this morning it was currently half-undone, tangled and damp with rain, but Sawyer was undeterred. I contentedly rested my nose at the juncture of his collarbones, feeling the rasp of his stubble, as he cupped the back of my head and pressed his lips to the slim, white scar near my left ear.

  “I put them over there,” I mumbled, drowsy with warmth; I did not manage to open my eyes as I indicated vaguely in the direction of the dead rabbits, though I flinched inadvertently as thunder sliced apart the sky. Sawyer’s arms tightened in response, and I whispered, “Boyd said we’d clean them after the storm.”

  “You rest, darlin’,” Sawyer said, his voice low and sweet, so familiar to me; the soft cadence of Tennessee lingered in his words. He said, “There are shadows beneath your eyes, and I mean to see them gone. You rest, and I’ll hold you.”

  * * *

  When I woke, the air outside was utterly still, the canvas wall slanting above our heads tinted with the placid auburn tones of an evening sun; from outside, near the smoldering fire, I could hear the comforting rise and fall of Boyd and Malcolm engaged in quiet conversation. Sawyer was snoring, flat upon his back, one arm stretched outward, the other curved about my waist, and his forearm was no doubt numb, pinned as it was beneath me. I was rolled into the quilt like a sausage in a flapjack, and smiled at the sight of him asleep. Unable to resist, I smoothed my fingertips along his fair hair, trailing over the blue-striped ticking of his pillow, softly as a cottonseed alighting upon the surface of the river.

  Sawyer issued a particularly loud snore, almost a snort, and I muffled a giggle, stretching to kiss the small dark mole on his neck; it was one of four on his upper body, the other three positioned in a neat row on the left side of his powerful chest. I leaned to kiss him in that exact place, my loose hair falling over his nose and chin, and he snorted again, groaning a little and then moving with purpose, engulfing me in his arms and exhaling a rush of air directly against the side of my neck, where he knew I was enormously ticklish. My breathless laughter was followed by the immediate sounds of Malcolm scrambling to our tent, curious about the racket within.

  Positioned just where the entrance was laced, Malcolm demanded, “What you-all doing in there?”

  “Never you mind, kid,” Sawyer teased, while I climbed atop him and ineffectually attempted to poke his ribs. Sawyer was too quick, rolling to his front side and blocking with his elbows, preventing my jabbing fingers from making contact, and I could suddenly smell roasting meat. When I looked that way I saw that the rabbits were gone; surely Malcolm must have crept within to retrieve them for Boyd’s knife. The resultant scent was rich in the air, and my stomach responded accordingly. I left off tickling him and aligned my front with Sawyer’s back, hooking my chin at the juncture of his neck, so that my breath was near his ear. Face buried in the pillow, his laughter was muffled.

  “We best join them,” I murmured, with reluctance, and in fact found myself latching one thigh even more securely about his hip in order to keep him here a little longer, forcibly if necessary; I sensed rather than saw his grin. I shifted to rest my lips between his shoulder blades, feeling his hard muscles beneath my breasts and belly. He turned effortlessly, keeping me atop his body, stacking both forearms under his head and grinning at me in the way he had that set everything within me to quickening. I gripped his ears and rested my forehead against his for the space of several heartbeats, studying his eyes at close range. My long hair fell all around us.

  “You blinked first,” he murmured, teasing me further.

  “I did not,” I retorted in a whisper.

  “What in tarnation is taking you-all so long? We got dinner cooking!” Malcolm informed impatiently, still directly outside our tent and no more than five feet from us.

  “Goddamn, boy, leave them two alone,” Boyd ordered, and I smiled to hear the customary note of affectionate irritation in his tone as he addressed his younger brother.

  Hungry as I was, I was not yet ready to be pulled from my preoccupation with Sawyer; I traced my fingertips in a beloved path along his handsome face, touching his cheekbones, sunburned to a deep golden-brown, his jaws and chin, my thumbs caressing the lines of his eyebrows in passing, the shape of his sensual mouth. He shivered, catching my hands into his much larger ones and kissing each palm.

  “You did blink first,” he whispered, and I was unable to keep from smiling at him.

  “Lorie,” he murmured. Studying my eyes, he to
ld me without words, I am so happy to be here with you, like this.

  It is a gift, I thought in return, and knew that he heard; it had been that way between us from the first.

  “I got a surprise!” Malcolm insisted, still nearby, and I could not help but giggle; Sawyer grinned, tenderly kissing the side of my neck, stroking lightly with his tongue, as I shivered and indulged in being sheltered against him for one last, sweet second.

  “I wish to see you eat well,” he said firmly, drawing us to our feet; standing, my nose was at a level with the center of his chest. He donned his dry muslin shirt, tucking it into his trousers and buttoning his suspenders into place with the easy motions of one not at all concerned with a fastidious dressing routine. He slipped the suspender straps over his shoulders and then swept back his thick hair, holding a leather thong he’d grabbed from the ground between his teeth, before retying it deftly into place around his hair. He knew I had been unable to eat much of late; my ribs were more prominent than they had been at the beginning of June.

  “I will,” I assured him, and he stroked my face, bestowing a final kiss before ducking outside. Sawyer was thoughtful to a fault, allowing me as much privacy as he could manage when we shared a space scarcely large enough for two adults, so careful to give me the chance to recover from what I had been through in Missouri; until I was fully healed and we were properly joined in marriage, he would not seek anything physical beyond kissing me and holding me close as we slept, this I knew well. It did not, however, alter for so much as an instant the intensity of awareness between us that existed from the first days we had known one another.

  Outside, Malcolm immediately claimed his attention; a smile tugged at my heart as I buttoned into a skirt and then knelt to root out my comb.

  “Sawyer,” the boy said. There was a note of reprimand in his tone and I listened with interest as my fingers flew, re-braiding my hair. Malcolm went on, as though addressing a naughty child, “You ain’t got your boots on, an’ you’s always harping on me for it.”