Soul of a Crow Page 6

“We will never be apart again,” he promised.

  I drew back enough to see his eyes, and said, “I wish I could have known your family.”

  Sawyer’s voice was tender with remembrance as he said, “They watch over us, as does your kin, and they understand that you are my family now. My mama always wanted a daughter. She would have taken one look at you and known you for mine. Daddy would have kissed your hands and entertained you with stories, and my brothers…” Here he laughed a little, before he explained, “Jere would have blushed and been too tongue-tied to speak to you, for days no doubt, but Ethan would have shoved me to the side and flirted for all he was worth,” and I smiled at this description of the twins.

  Outside, Boyd was still fiddling the soft, sweet waltz.

  Sawyer whispered, “They would have loved you so,” and the air between us subtly shifted, a potent beat of desire taking up an insistent rhythm as our gazes held; there came now the necessity of removing our clothes. Low and husky, he whispered, “May I?” and indicated the buttons of my blouse.

  I nodded and his fingers moved to the fastenings that ran in an evenly-spaced length between my breasts, slowly unbuttoning each. Once undone, he drew the material carefully down my waist, leaving only my shift. Though one had been purchased this afternoon, I wore no inhibiting corset, and Sawyer’s eyes were so intense that I began to tremble, my blood a hectic springtime stream, bound to overflow its banks.

  “Now you,” I whispered, and I reached to slide the suspenders over his wide shoulders, then tugged free the shirt from his trousers; as his skin was subsequently slowly bared, heat absolutely leaped between us. I made a small, inadvertent sound, letting his shirt join the soft pile of clothing on the ground, moving my fingertips to the planes of his face. I traced along the high cheekbones that created such angles, before letting my hands slide down to caress his bare chest, firm with muscle. Once in my life, I would not have believed myself capable of speaking the words, certain the ability to experience desire had been eradicated from my soul; I whispered sincerely, “You are beautiful, Sawyer, truly.”

  He smiled, radiantly, shaking his head at me, taking us both to the bedding. Bracing just above me, he said, “You flatter me, darlin’.” A heartbeat later, he murmured, “Your skirt.”

  With my eyes, I told him what I wanted.

  “Very well,” he whispered, and his fingers moved to the back of my waist. He took my hips fully into his grasp, bracketing my body, before sliding just beneath me to unfasten the pair of buttons, slowly and deliberately.

  I love you so very much, he said without words, letting his thoughts penetrate mine, his eyes intent with purpose; my heart thrust with such vigor that I was lightheaded, drunk upon his presence, his touch, his eyes and his scent. He told me, I wish to bring you pleasure as you have never known.

  Yes, I responded in kind, flush and feverish with need for him. Oh Sawyer, yes.

  “Once we are wed,” he whispered, softly kissing my lips, tasting just lightly with his tongue. “I know you are still hurting, Lorie-darlin’, and I won’t ask anything more than you’re ready for, you know that, even after. We will wait until you are ready.” He tucked hair behind my ear, fingertips lingering on my jaw.

  I couldn’t help but smile at these gallant words, even as my limbs trembled at his touch. I whispered, “I know.”

  “Lift your hips,” and his voice was a throaty murmur. “So that I may remove this skirt.” He slipped the material down my legs, freeing me from it, and then said, “Come here to me.”

  “I love when you say that,” I whispered, as he gathered me close. His eyes asked me to explain what I meant, and so I did. “You said those words just after we kissed for the first time, in the thunderstorm.”

  He said softly, “All I want in the world is for you to come to me.”

  I bent my right leg around his hips, lifting my chin so that I could kiss the juncture of his collarbones, where his pulse throbbed hectically, matching mine. Through his trousers and my shift, our lower bodies pressed intimately close. Despite his promise, which I knew to the depths of me he meant sincerely, and would honor, he was rigid as the trunk of a hardwood tree. I swallowed and begged softly, holding his gaze in mine, “May I at least touch you?”

  At my words a tremor passed through him and he sounded strangled as he whispered, “I do not expect—”

  “I want to,” I implored in a whisper, interrupting him. “Please, let me touch you.”

  Without waiting for his acquiescence, I slid my left palm down his belly, flat as a knife blade, and then over his solid length. He moaned, deeply, as a shiver jolted through him, tipping his forehead to my shoulder, hand gripping my thigh. I held my touch steady against him, blood thundering through me, not daring to free him from his trousers, though instinct was demanding heatedly that I do so. My entire soul was afire.

  “Lorie,” he groaned. There was such repressed passion in his eyes that everything within me flashed and sizzled in immediate response, as if struck with bolt lightning. “You don’t know how incredible your touch…”

  He briefly closed his eyes, as if gathering strength, and then determinedly caught my hand into his, kissing my knuckles before bringing it to his cheek. His voice shook as he whispered, “I am attempting to be a gentleman, truly. A gentleman,” he repeated firmly, as though I’d contradicted him.

  My hand still burning, I murmured, “I know, I do. I’m sorry.”

  “Never be sorry for touching me,” he said passionately, kissing the neckline of my shift, where my skin was bared, and I shivered. He said, “Never be sorry for that. I would beg you to touch me, all the time. But you are not fully healed, and I would despise myself for making love to you at present. I will wait.”

  I pressed even closer to him.

  “I love taking down your hair,” he whispered, stroking its length. “And letting it fall all along your shoulders. You are so very soft. And so lovely I can hardly breathe for wanting you.” He drew slightly away and ran his fingertips slowly between my breasts, my nipples round and swollen against my shift, craving his mouth; his touch moved to my belly, over which he spread his hand in a wide, warm length. His eyes were ember-dark with desire as they moved slowly back to my face.

  I told him, “As soon as we are wed, you will have to fight me away from you.”

  He laughed, low, and said, “Now that’s a fight I will gladly lose.”

  * * *

  It seemed as though I had scarcely closed my eyes when Sawyer said in my ear, “Lorie, stay here and don’t make a sound.”

  Mired in the deep black bowels of night, our tent was encased in smothering darkness. His words conveyed such seriousness that I did not dare ask what was the matter, though clearly something was—having delivered this order, he moved swiftly, and I sensed more than saw him crouching at the entrance to our tent. I lifted to one elbow, unable to continue lying flat, and as my eyes adjusted, I saw that Sawyer held his pistol at the ready; my heart seized and began thrashing, but I remained obediently silent. Sawyer bent his head, as one listening fixedly, and I threw my senses immediately outward, hearing nothing at first other than the ferocity of my blood.

  What is it? I begged him.

  Someone’s out there, he responded. The horses are restless.

  And then I could hear exactly what he meant—from the direction of their tethers came the agitated rustlings of our animals, whickers and whooshes, a stomping of hooves, quiet sounds that would go unnoticed by day’s light, but nonetheless those indicating that someone approached their position. Sawyer whistled two quiet notes, those of a bobwhite quail, which was his and Boyd’s customary call for each other’s attention when words could not be used. Seconds later, to my relief, I heard Boyd stir within his tent.

  Sawyer told me, I will return shortly.

  I knew it was useless to beg him to be careful; he was cautious and well-trained, a former soldier whose Company had engaged in countless brutal conflicts during the War, but it stabbed a
t me to remain behind as he silently undid two of the entrance ties, taking a moment to retie each behind him before slipping into the night. I rolled immediately to all fours, crawling to the edge of the canvas nearest the horses, and listened with all of my effort, hearing little but the continual flow of the river, just to the east. Time inched rather than passed. I heard Boyd emerge, his footfalls barely perceptible; I imagined him joining Sawyer, the two communicating with gestures as they determined their next move. Malcolm was also awake in the adjacent tent, and though the boy did not share the ability to hear my thoughts, I sent a message his way, Be still, please, dear one. Be silent.

  I waited, finding it nearly unbearable, more excruciating as seconds ticked by with no indication of what was occurring outside. My eyes roved over the canvas mere inches from my nose as I crouched, pale even in the pitch-dark night.

  Malcolm whispered fervently, “Lorie.”

  I jerked in fright at the sudden sound, and could tell he was right outside; my lips compressed into a tight, angry line at this certain disobeying of Boyd’s orders. I opened my mouth to respond when a woman screamed, a high-pitched, blood-curdling yowl that set every hair on the back of my neck rigid. I choked on a gasp, scrambling to the entrance, fingers shaking almost too much to free myself from the tent.

  Malcolm cried shrilly, “What is it?”

  In the same instant, perhaps two dozen paces distant, Sawyer shouted, “Just there!”

  Boyd yelped and there was the shock of gunfire at close range, three shots in rapid sequence; Boyd roared, “They’s headed for the river!”

  I fumbled to my feet and raced around the side of the tent, frantic to know what was happening. A supple blur of movement from the direction of the horses caught me unaware; something formidably large bounded so close to me as I stood there, unsheltered, that I nearly toppled over. Before I could make sense of what I had just seen, Sawyer bellowed, “Lorie!”

  A second creature leaped through our camp on the heels of the first, lithe and enormous, a courier of death as surely as a bullet to the heart. The wailing screech again shattered the night; my blood went to ice—and then Sawyer was there, ascertaining that I was safe before charging after what I belatedly realized was a pair of catamounts. Though utterly unharmed, I sank quite involuntarily to the cold ground. Near the riverbank, Sawyer fired twice after the fleeing animals, just as Boyd ran from around the far side of the tents. Catching sight of Sawyer loping back to us, Boyd stopped short, tipping forward to catch his breath; both of them were almost visibly sparking with energy.

  For the fourth or fifth time, Boyd sputtered, “Jesus H. Christ.”

  Malcolm fell to his knees beside me and I caught him in my arms; the boy’s heart fired rapidly. Sawyer paced around us, putting his free hand on my hair, my shoulder, reassuring himself that I was indeed all right; he was, however, unable to cease moving, far too riled up.

  “Are the horses safe?” I asked, terrified anew.

  Boyd, having regained a sliver of composure, responded, “They’s fine, though they was close to being dinner for them big cats. Shee-it. My heart just about quit beatin’ when the one screamed. I never seen such big critters.”

  Sawyer finally came to a standstill, drawing a fortifying breath and staring in the direction of the river. He said, somewhat hoarsely, “Me, neither.”

  Boyd focused on his little brother, and his tone promptly changed into that of a disciplinarian, stern with warning as he said, “Boy, I oughta strap your hide within an inch of your life. Did I or did I not tell you to stay in that goddamn tent?”

  Malcolm did not so much as attempt to offer an excuse, though his slender arms tightened their grip on my waist; I almost smiled at this gesture, which surely indicated that the boy would have to be pried forcibly from me in order to receive a whipping. Malcolm said meekly, “You did.”

  “You’s goddamn lucky I have to piss just now,” Boyd carried on, irascibly. “When I get back, you best be outta my sight.”

  “You mind watching your mouth in front of Lorie?” Sawyer asked sharply.

  Boyd huffed a surprised laugh, and we were all laughing then, the tension of the past quarter-hour taking abrupt wing. Boyd said, “I apologize, Lorie-girl, I truly do. I had me a shock to the system, you see. An’ I do have to piss, something fierce.”

  “Then get,” Sawyer ordered. He was laughing nearly too hard to say, “But watch out…for panthers…”

  “Jesus Christ,” Boyd uttered again, clutched in hilarity. He declared, “Davis, you’s gonna accompany me…an’ then you’s gonna watch my back while I water them cottonwoods…”

  By the time we retired to our tent, dawn was perhaps an hour away, at most. The night had lost its clutch on the air, giving way to tones of gray; beyond the river, a faint stripe of pale peach heralded the advancing day.

  “I’m just as guilty as Malcolm,” I admitted, my cheek resting upon Sawyer’s heartbeat as he stroked my back, up and down in a gentle rhythm; it felt so good that most of the tension in my body had fled. I explained, “You told me to stay in the tent, too.”

  “I did,” he agreed in a whisper. “It was a dangerous situation and I suppose I should be angry, but you’re safe in my arms, and I can’t muster up any anger just now.”

  “Were they stalking the horses?” I whispered, horrified at the prospect; I had never considered that a horse could be a prey animal.

  “They must have been,” Sawyer replied. He cupped my shoulder blade, gently stroking his thumb along the hollow created by it, which he knew I loved. He murmured, “I recall Mama worrying over panther tracks near our well a few times when I was a boy, but I never saw the size of such creatures back home.”

  “Do you think your shots hit them?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. They were moving too fast.”

  “I aim to keep practicing with the rifle,” I said, snuggling nearer to his warmth.

  “Yes,” Sawyer murmured in agreement. He kissed my ear and whispered, “Sleep for a spell before dawn, mo mhuirnín milis, the danger’s moved on now.”

  - 4 -

  We traveled on into the prairies of Iowa. According to our route, I knew that we would shortly catch the Iowa River, which angled northwest, and would guide us nearly into Minnesota, where we would continue to travel due north before retaking the much-larger Mississippi, which had unfailingly led the way from Tennessee. Boyd posted a letter to Jacob, back in Keokuk, letting Jacob and his wife, Hannah, know that we were only a little behind their predicted schedule.

  “Gus figured that by August we would be in central Minnesota and pick up the Mississippi again, and follow it all the way to Jacob’s homestead. When we were plotting a route last winter, we determined that if we veered northwest in Iowa, it would cut weeks from the journey. With luck, we’ll arrive by early autumn,” Sawyer said.

  He rode Whistler near the wagon, which I drove, sweating under the long afternoon sunshine despite my wide-brimmed hat. The air was warm and bright, and I had rolled the sleeves of my blouse above both elbows. I was barefoot and wearing Malcolm’s trousers, belted now with a length of satin ribbon. Malcolm and Boyd rode just ahead, and I reflected anew how much I appreciated the freedom to wear boy’s clothing; here on the prairie, the strict rules of conduct which had been instilled in me from my earliest days did not apply as exactly. I allowed myself room to speculate that perhaps in Minnesota I would be allowed to retain this independence, however sparingly. What an unexpected luxury it would be if no one in the north woods objected to my unladylike mode of dressing.

  Besides, I reflected, with an acknowledgment of the bitterness coloring the thought, You are no longer exactly a lady. No matter how dearly Sawyer treats you, how much he loves you, it can never fully absolve you of the truth.

  And the truth was, like it or no, and I hated it to the blackest depths of my soul, I’d been a whore.

  Forgive me, Mama, I found myself thinking, as I did time and again, though somehow I knew in my heart tha
t even my lovely, decorous mother would find it in hers to accept my plea.

  “I am eager to see the North country,” Sawyer said; we spoke often in this conversational vein. “To read Jacob’s letters is to picture a sort of heaven on earth. Lakes as you’ve never imagined, forests so deep it would take days to walk from under the tree limbs. The winters, though, I’ve trouble imagining as Jacob describes them.”

  “Drifts higher than the windows,” I said, recalling the phrasing of one such letter. Inevitably we circled back to the idea of winter; Jacob was a descriptive writer, prone to excessive detail. For the countless time, I found myself anxiety-ridden, speculating just what Jacob Miller would think of my unexpected presence; Boyd kept his uncle well informed, and he was insistent that Jacob and Hannah would welcome all of us with open arms, but I was still apprehensive to meet them. As I told Sawyer, I would be content to forgo homesteading and roam the prairie for the rest of our days, as long as he was at my side.

  Malcolm declared, “I aim to throw a snowball, that’s what.”

  “And catch a fish bigger than you,” Sawyer teased the boy. “Boyd, you recall the catfish in Sutter’s Creek that was known to eat boys in one gulp?”

  Boyd laughed, reining Fortune so that they could ride alongside Sawyer and Whistler. A smoke dangled between his lips; he spoke around it to reply, “For certain. Goddamn thing. Tried to snatch itself a piece of my foot, on occasion.”

  “Daddy said it might snatch itself our winks, if we didn’t stop swimming bare-naked,” Malcolm giggled, prompting everyone’s laughter.

  “Shit, I believe I just been insulted,” Boyd said, still grinning. “My wink’s big enough that no catfish would ever mistake it for food, thank you kindly.”

  Sawyer said with mock solemnity, “I’d like to think the same, of mine.”

  “You-all wish! I seen you twos in your nothings-on,” Malcolm cried, taking great joy in teasing them, and Boyd reached and flicked a finger beneath the brim of his little brother’s hat, setting it sailing; the boy had not latched his chin strap, as it was a windless day. I could not stop laughing.