Heart of a Dove (14 page)

“The fever took her from me,” Angus said then, as he ascertained that I was curious. “By the time we got home in the spring of ’sixty-five, she was gone. Though so was half of Suttonville. Sawyer’s folks, and the Carters, too. We were fortunate to find Malcolm still living.”

At the mention of the boy, I smiled softly. I said, “He is a dear little heart.”

Angus sat straight and turned his face to me; his eyes held a hint of good humor, the aching inside of him tucked away. He said, “I know you feel you’re putting us out, Lorie, but please do not. I haven’t seen Malcolm so joyful since he was just a boy. Truly. Though Boyd does dote on him, we all do.”

Not everyone would agree that my presence was a welcome one, though I did not dare to voice those thoughts for fear of sounding ungrateful. Sawyer had never been directly rude to me; he tolerated me, though to me it seemed just barely. I worried that he would be able to convince Angus to leave me behind. I would bet that he had made attempts already to bend Angus’s ear that direction. To be completely fair, I was a stranger, a whore, with no means, no money and no resources. The thought of being left behind again caused a cold, insidious fist to grip at my belly. Already I loved Malcolm and cared greatly for Angus. No reason or logic could justify such feelings, as just four days earlier they had been unknown to me in every regard. Ahead of us, Admiral suddenly tossed his proud head and gave a snort, followed by a loud whinny. Angus laughed.

“Only a spell longer, old friend,” he said to the animal. “Just a mile or so and we’ll be at camp.”

“Has he been yours long?” I asked, studying the horse. He was a beauty, with a gray coat dappled in black.

“Years now. He’s a good friend,” Angus said. “Though I couldn’t fairly claim to love him as much as Sawyer loves Whistler. Theirs is a bond that I’ve never seen. I do believe that horse can read his mind. His mother, dear Ellen, swore that could Whistler be magically transformed into a human woman, she would be the love of her boy’s life.”

I shifted position on the seat, my heart twisting a little. Angus spoke so fondly of Sawyer. He went on, “Sawyer’s mother came to America from Ireland as a young woman, and she made sure that all three of her boys were educated as best she could manage. She taught them the Irish Gaelic of her youth. It broke her heart to pieces when they decided to join up as soldiers.”

At that moment Malcolm came galloping into view, leaning forward over his horse’s neck; even from a distance I could see his grin. Within seconds he flew past us and then circled back around, walking Aces beside the wagon on Angus’s side.

“I been driving the wagon for too long!” he decided, patting his horse’s neck with enthusiasm. “My boy missed me, didn’t you, boy?”

“So who has to wash dishes?” I asked, leaning around Angus to see the boy.

He grinned and said, “Boyd, ha. I tried my best to beat Sawyer, but can’t nobody beat him, especially not when he’s on Whistler. If he ever let me ride her, I might have an icicle’s chance in he—” On that word he choked himself to a stop and then coughed, rather dramatically.

“Well, I’ve a treat for all of us,” Angus said. “A side of beef. Malcolm, you ride back and get that fire ready.”

The boy heeled his horse’s flanks and made dust fly as he did as bade. From beneath my hat brim I peered ahead, watching as Malcolm dismounted Aces with a flourish and led him to where the others were grazing. Minutes later Angus lifted me down from the wagon and I helped him unload. I ducked into my tent and took a moment to spread my new belongings on my bedding, to admire them. I vividly recalled sitting high off the floor upon my parents’ carved-oak bed with its glorious towering headboard, watching my mama do the same thing, delighting in running her fingertips over the softness of silk, or velvet.

Mama had loved clothing, and lace, and shoes with little heels. She had taken great pleasure in fine things; I imagined what she would say if she was here with me now, within my little tent on the plains of Missouri so far from home, washed in the mellow, whiskey-tinted light of afternoon. Hearing the sound of a boy humming as he built up the fire, and the deeper rumble of men chatting. I curled my fingers into the fringe on the edge of my new shawl and then tipped forward to press my face against its softness.

The next thing I knew Malcolm was kneeling beside me, shaking my shoulder gently. I blinked in surprise, noting by the light that it was well into evening. The fire was crackling and the steaks grilling. The rich scent of the beef caused saliva to fill my mouth instantly.

“Gus told me to let you sleep, but I didn’t want you to miss eating. Don’t that beef smell grand?” he said. “We had us a right feast, but there’s plenty left for you, Lorie.”

I sat up, bracing myself on one hand. I said, “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” Something else occurred to me and I added, “I didn’t cut your hair.”

Malcolm grinned, shaking his head and deliberately making his unruly hair flop over his forehead. “Tomorrow’s soon enough. Now, c’mon. Boyd’s gonna play the fiddle.”

“I’ll be there momentarily,” I told him.

He ducked back out and I slipped after him, glad that no one paid particular attention, as I had to make what Daddy had always called the “long walk,” referring to the distance between our home and the outhouse, though now I walked farther than was perhaps necessary to assure privacy. On my way back, passing the horses grazing contentedly, I found my steps slowing. I looked around, almost furtively, as though about to engage in forbidden behavior, but I just wanted to touch them. I loved horses so very well; just their scent conjured up images of my father’s ranch, and the safety and love of an entire family to call my own.

No one was about, all back around the fire and out of sight, leaving me emboldened. I was thinking of Angus explaining how much Sawyer loved his horse as I approached the five of them; though the others kept their heads low after a brief acknowledgment of my presence, Whistler lifted hers and shook it lightly, as a woman might when tossing aside her hair. She did indeed possess a lovely auburn mane. She watched me come near with her dark eyes steady upon me, and then nickered a little, as though in welcome. My heart tripped in gladness at the sound, and at the way she reached her nose out towards me, as though perhaps anticipating an apple. I wished fervently that I held one for her. Instead I cupped my bare hands and held them to her nose, hearing myself murmur, “Hello, you beautiful girl, you lovely girl.”

Her face was rust-red, with a large white star between her eyes and a white snip between her nostrils. She blew breath against my palms and I felt a smile near splitting my face. Before I realized what I was doing, I cupped her jaws and kissed the velvet tip of her nose as I had loved to kiss our horses in my old life. She blew breath from her nostrils again, stepping delicately closer to me and then nudging my chest, gently. I lifted my hands and stroked her sleek neck, one hand on either side of her, admiring her painted coat of red and rich cream, gleaming now as the last beams of a dying day’s sun stretched their arms over the horizon for one last earthly touch. I scratched along her neck, murmuring nonsense. Before I knew that my arms had moved I was hugging her, pressing my cheek against her neck and inhaling her scent. She allowed this, holding still as I clung with my heart suddenly pounding so hard it was almost painful.

“Thank you,” I heard myself whispering against her neck.

The sun sank inescapably into the west in the next moment and I was simultaneously returned to my senses, drawing reluctantly back, my heart yet hammering my ribs. Again I darted my gaze about, making sure I was still alone; I was, and breathed with a bit more ease.

“There you are,” Malcolm said with satisfaction as I approached the fire minutes later; immediately I noticed Sawyer was not present and my heart flared to agitation once more.

Where was he? Had he been near the tether lines?

“Evening, Miss Blake,” Boyd said. All of them rose to their feet as I joined them, as gentlemen at a formal dining table; I felt my cheeks heat at their politeness.

“Lorie, you must be hungry,” Angus said, moving to dish up a plate for me; as of today, there were plates enough for all of us. He added, “I would have let you sleep, though I’m glad you’ve joined us.”

“Thank you,” I said, accepting the plate, just barely refraining from grabbing the meat into my hands.

“Boyd’s about to start playing,” Malcolm explained, patting the blanket near him.

I sank to his right side, Angus to my own right and Boyd directly across, easing open the clasps on a black violin case as he took his seat. The insides of the case were lined in a deep-green crushed velvet that brought to my mind Mama’s Christmas ball gown. He drew forth the instrument and cradled it lovingly before lifting it into position. It was a rather incongruous sight, the delicate chinrest against his rugged, square-jawed face, but as he drew the bow in a series of little practice skips, the music could not have been sweeter.

“Boyd, play ‘The Cuckoo,’ c’mon!” requested Malcolm, near bouncing with excitement, and Boyd’s dark eyes crinkled as he grinned and made the fiddle sing. The fingers of his left hand flew along the neck, his right elbow quirked gracefully into the air as he bowed. I ate, watching and listening with delight, my heart nearly calm again, when Sawyer at last joined us, taking his customary place on Malcolm’s left. I refused to look his way and perhaps imagined that his gaze lingered just a fraction longer than usual upon me before he turned away and towards Boyd.

The music flew up into the darkening sky and surely reverberated from the stars before rejoining us, far below. Had anyone been within a mile radius, they would have received a rare treat as Boyd played song after song, tirelessly, his eyes closed. For some Malcolm sang along, unable to help it, the old words ingrained as much as any childhood lullaby. His voice, yet high and unchanged from that of a boy, was likewise sweet and well-pitched. Boyd played Scottish reels I remembered well from my youth, music from the hills where we’d all been raised. When he slowed his pace and bowed out the first strings of a Tennessee waltz, I felt tears unexpectedly sting my eyes; in my mind I could see Mama and Daddy dancing to this very music, his strong hand spread upon her back, her slim pale arm across his shoulders, the love in their eyes as they moved gracefully amongst other couples. My parents had loved each other, of that I was certain.

Malcolm suddenly leaped to his bare feet and bowed extravagantly to me, catching me by surprise, as I had been about to use him as a shield to lean back and unobtrusively swipe at my tears. He wore an expression of mock solemnity as he stood back to full height and held out a hand to me. His dark eyes begged me to join him, though I was horribly self-conscious. Even for Malcolm, I didn’t think I’d be able to dance with everyone looking on, but his eyes were so hopeful. He implored, “Madam?”

At last I carefully set aside my plate and then nodded assent. He pulled me to my feet as Angus smiled, Boyd laughed and the bow danced over the strings. Malcolm seemed at first hesitant about which hands belonged where, and I appropriated his right arm and placed it around my waist, then held out my right hand. He seized this in his left and grinned then, sure of himself, waltzing me around and around, his eyes on our feet as though to look up might jeopardize his tentative rhythm. Fortunately his feet were bare, as he inadvertently stomped repeatedly on mine, once even catching my hem, causing us nearly to fall. I heard rollicking laughter and almost didn’t recognize the sound as my own. At one point Boyd yelped, “
Boy
! If I didn’t have to play I’d cut in on you like a suitor at a barn raisin’! You’re
pitiful
!”

Malcolm shot back, “I need me some faster music, play another reel, Boyd!”

He jigged me then, bouncing and twirling until I was almost breathless with laughter, at least two hairpins flying. At last I had to beg mercy, though Malcolm crowed in disappointment. Boyd fiddled in a last wild frenzy before gliding the bow across the strings in one drawn-out concluding note. He brought the fiddle slowly to his lap, everyone besides Sawyer still laughing; he was gazing meditatively into the fire, though he did manage to drag his eyes away to look at Boyd and say softly, “Well played,
cara d'aois.
”

I peeked sideways at him at these unfamiliar words, wondering what they meant. In the absence of music, the air was eerily still, as if a whisper could be heard for miles. Malcolm whooped once, lifting his face to the sky, as though expecting an echo in return. He declared, “That was great fun!”

“It was at that,” I agreed, my breath still short, unable to stop myself from beaming at him. I could feel a section of hair trailing down the side of my neck, where I’d lost pins; I would have to search for those by morning light, as I had a limited supply.

Angus said to Malcolm, “Son, remind me to show you a thing or two about waltzing.”

“Wait, I almost forgot!” Malcolm cried, as Boyd put away the fiddle and snapped the case, then rose to return it to the wagon. Malcolm implored Angus with his eyes, asking, “Where’d you put…” and then his voice dropped to a stage whisper, “You know!”

Angus stood too, indicating with a tilt of his head that Malcolm follow after him, unintentionally plunging me into distress as I was left alone at the fire with the last person who wanted to be alone with me. Though my insides were at once crowded with flapping panic-birds, Sawyer remained utterly still, unaffected, again as though carved of stone in his usual pose with knees bent and arms wrapped loosely around them. I tried to appear as though I wasn’t struggling to breathe, mimicking his example of studying the crackling fire. The harder I tried to sit still the more difficult it became; suddenly I realized he had tilted his chin just a fraction and was looking at me over the flames.

He saw me with his horse. He’s angry that I touched her, took that liberty
…

Of their own accord, my eyes moved to the left and into his gaze. I did not have the sense that he intended to make me uncomfortable; rather, he seemed puzzled, his eyebrows drawn slightly together. A hundred thoughts crowded loudly for attention in my mind; I could hear Lisette saying he was handsome as the devil, Malcolm telling me that women liked to run their fingers through his hair, how much he loved Whistler, that she could read his mind. Perhaps mere seconds ticked past; I felt inexplicably stunned as he looked directly at me. His eyes were like those of a hawk, bold and such a striking color, that fetching and unusual blend of gold and green, with darker rings surrounding his irises. The planes and angles of his face were sharply defined in the dancing orange firelight; I had noticed earlier that he bore a faded white scar perpendicular to his right jaw, inches long, evidence of something sharp once slashing there.