Heart of a Dove (39 page)

I was hurting, though not the way that he meant. Physically I was sore, but I would heal, the bruising would fade. None of that changed the fact that Angus had been killed by men sent for me. The guilt of that would never fully leave me, nor would the guilt that came from the ribbon of relief that I could only acknowledge in the deepest, blackest corner of my soul, the relief that I was free from obligation. Free to be with the man I truly loved.

Sawyer, my Sawyer. I know you would understand, but I cannot acknowledge that now, I cannot admit that relief. Maybe someday.

“I don’t want to move just yet,” I whispered, closing my eyes. I whispered, wishing I could convey the full depth of my sincerity with mere words, “You came for me, Sawyer. You came for me.” Though I knew he understood.

“Nothing could have stopped me,” he whispered intently. “I would do anything for you.”

The evening sun fell over us and I clung to him, kissing his chin and along his jaw, pausing at his right temple and stroking my fingers over his loose hair. It was silken in my hands. The linen had fallen away from me, and he shivered and placed me down on the bedding, so carefully, before he tipped his head to my bare skin and with immeasurable tenderness, pressed his lips over the welt on my breast, where I’d been bitten.

“Lorie,” he breathed softly, and he laid his cheek between my breasts, closing his eyes. I held him to me, so deeply and fathomlessly in love with him that my heart ached, almost unable to bear such emotion. He whispered, “Your heartbeat.”

“Sawyer,” I whispered. Words could not do justice to what I felt, but again I knew that he understood, that my hands and my heart told him everything. After a time he lifted his head and moved over me, cradling me beneath him, my breasts pressed to the muslin of his shirt.

He said softly, “I’m not a saint, not even close, though I will not make love to you until we are wed, because it’s proper.” His thumbs stroked over my chin, gently, as he asked, “My Lorie, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

I whispered back, “In my heart I already am.”

He smiled into my eyes, whispering, “Then as your betrothed, I am going to insist that you get up and eat something.”

I ducked outside minutes later to find the sky awash with fiery oranges and rippling golds, gilded in scarlet and flowing to the horizon like the waves of an endless body of water. Malcolm came to me from the crackling fire and I hugged him close; I’d not the energy to put up my hair, and Malcolm wound his fingers into it and leaned on me, uncharacteristically silent. Boyd and Sawyer were yards away, standing near one another and watching the sunset, though Sawyer looked over his shoulder as I emerged. I could hardly bear to let him from my sight either, but Malcolm needed me; he had buried Gus.

Angus. I am so sorry, so very sorry. Please hear me, please. It is my fault that you are gone, no matter how Sawyer reassures me, and I can only pray that somewhere you are able to know this and to forgive me. Maybe my apology doesn’t mean a thing to you in heaven, perhaps you’re beyond all such there, or maybe that is just how I placate myself, but I ache with guilt for you here on earth. I know you would have cared for me, and for our child. Please forgive me.

“I’m sorry, Malcolm,” I whispered, holding him and pressing my lips to his messy hair. “I’m so sorry about Gus.”

He shuddered with an indrawn breath and finally said, “We buried him proper, yesterday. We buried him an’ he’s with his wife now, that’s what Boyd said. An’ his family, all waiting there for him in heaven.”

I rocked him side to side and he whispered, “But you’re safe, Lorie. We didn’t know an’ I’ve never been so a-feared, I tell you. Boyd said Sawyer would bring you back safe, or die trying. An’ then I thought I would never see the two of you again.” He drew back to look into my eyes, his own somber. “I know you told me to watch over Sawyer, an’ I tried, Lorie, I tried my best. He was so fulla tears that even Boyd was worried. An’ these past days me an’ Boyd walked miles an’ miles until we came to a homestead, an’ they was kind enough to borrow us a horse, Rambler’s his name, an’ we aim to return him when we head back north. We been waiting on you-all since night before last.” He paused for a breath, still studying my face in the setting sun. He said, “I woulda killed those men that took you, that hurt you. That would hurt a girl. They ain’t fit to live. I hope Sawyer made ’em suffer.”

To redirect his bloodthirsty thoughts, I asked softly, “May we eat? I’m so hungry.”

“Of course,” he told me, and led me to the saddle blankets, easing me gently to my usual spot. “I’ll fetch you a plate, Lorie-Lorie.”

Rabbits were spitted and crackling-brown over the fire. Malcolm sliced me a sizeable chunk and I forced myself to eat slowly, as I had not eaten in what seemed days. Malcolm passed me the canteen, watching as though to anticipate what I might need.

“I love you so,” I told him. “I was so worried for you.”

“Aw, Lorie,” he said, his lips trembling a little. “I love you too. We’re right as the rain. But I do miss Gus, an’ I don’t reckon I’ll ever stop expecting to hear him talking. He called me ‘son,’ an’ I liked that so. I never did tell him, but sometimes I pretended he was my daddy.” His dark eyes swept to the fire, then back to mine, full of concern. He asked, “Do you think my own daddy would be grieved?”

My heart ached at this sincere question. I whispered, “Of course not, sweet boy. We can never be faulted for loving someone, not ever.”

He nodded then, wiping the tears on his cheek with one shoulder.

Sawyer and Boyd joined us, Boyd settling across from Malcolm, while Sawyer crouched behind me and collected me upon his lap. His arms enfolded me and I turned my cheek to his chest immediately. Malcolm leaned against Sawyer’s arm, sighing with a soft breath.

“We’ll visit Gus’s grave before we head out in morning,” Boyd said softly.

“I would like him to have a cross,” Sawyer said quietly. “He deserves so much more than that, God knows, but I aim to make him a cross.”

Sawyer and Boyd sat long beside the fire that dark night, constructing a wooden marker for Gus’s grave. They worked near the fire, talking quietly when they spoke at all, the scent of Boyd’s tobacco smoke combining with the fire itself, drifting through the canvas to fill my nostrils. I was too distraught to sleep. Instead I curled around my pillow and listened with half an ear as they worked together.

“He loved you, you know,” Boyd said at one point. “He did, Sawyer.”

“I know,” Sawyer returned, hardly more than a whisper.

“He loved Lorie too. But he couldn’t love Lorie the way you do, I see that now,” Boyd murmured. I heard him say, “I ain’t ever gonna speak of this again, but if I had to lose Gus or you, I’d…” Boyd faltered, as though collecting himself with a great deal of effort. “I couldn’t go on without you, old friend. I could not.” Faintly, “Let us never speak of this again.”

Though I could not see him, I sensed Sawyer’s grief. He said something to Boyd too low for me to hear, his voice ragged. Moments later he untied the entrance to the tent where I lay, crawling within to my waiting arms, putting his face to my neck. I clung to him, stroking his hair with both hands.

“Lorie,” he whispered against my skin, and I drew back to see his eyes in the muted orange glow of the fire through the pale canvas walls, the flames flickering over us in unceasing motion. He appeared to have been struck across both eyes, so sore and swollen from tears did they look; I was sure that mine appeared similarly. I traced my thumbs gently over his cheekbones and he smiled just a little at my touch, shifting so that his weight was not resting fully against my right arm.

“Sawyer,” I whispered back.

“I do not mean to lose control so,” he said softly, his voice rough with emotion. “I just…”

You needn’t explain
, I assured him with my eyes, keeping my hands upon his face.

“I know,” he whispered in response, turning his face to kiss my left palm. “Boyd and I made a cross for Gus.” His eyes held mine and he said softly, “We made another for the baby.”

I drew in a sharp breath at that, not from anger; rather, I was overcome that they had thought to do so. Sawyer said intently, “Are you—”

No
, I tried to say, though no sound emerged, as my throat closed off. I shook my head.

“It is not your fault,” he said slowly, as though to impress upon me the truth of his words, his eyes driving into mine. “Lorie, I would that you know this.”

When I didn’t speak, he softly kissed my forehead and whispered to me, “When Ethan and Jeremiah were killed, I knew that Mama wouldn’t be able to bear it. I thought…that if I could save their bodies…so that she could see them buried…”

“Sawyer,” I whispered, as pain for what we’d both been through sliced as keenly as the edge of a cold blade.

He wound his fingers into my loose hair. Quietly, he explained, “Both of them are buried near Mama and Daddy in the cemetery back home. I brought them home on a wagon bed, wrapped in blankets. I could do that for them. It was all I could do, and Mama thanked me.” His voice caught. “She never blamed me for their deaths, like I feared, nor did Daddy, but I could hardly bear to look them in the eyes, I was so ashamed to be returning home alive when my brothers were gone. I had to report back for duty within a week.” He shifted us again, carefully, settling my shoulder blades to the blanket. He ground the base of both palms against his eyes before propping himself on his left elbow to study my face. He bracketed his right hand flush against my ribs and whispered, “I know it’s but little comfort, but I want the baby to have a cross, near Gus’s.”

I told him, “Thank you. Thank you with all my heart.”

He slid one hand upward to cup my jaw.

“Boyd told me how you carried your brothers from the battlefield,” I whispered. I took his wrist in my hand, holding tightly as my words came forth, raggedly. “I know you would do anything for those you love. Oh Sawyer, I love you. I need you so much. When I heard your voice, when I knew you were there…”

His nostrils flared and his eyes grew intent with protectiveness. He bent his forehead to mine, curving over me, with great care. He pressed tender, feather-soft kisses to my bottom lip, the swelling on my temple. He whispered, “I will protect you with my life, my brave woman. Do not fear, not anymore, sweetheart.”

I curled against him, the strength and blessed safety of him, tucking my face to his neck. He cupped the back of my skull and wrapped his other arm about my waist. Into my hair he murmured, “I love you so.
Mo mhuirnín mhilis
, my Lorie.”

We heard Boyd rise and bank the fire; its orange glow diminished almost instantly, insulating us in a dimmer reddish tint.

“G’night, you twos,” Boyd told us from just outside the entrance. “I’m to bed.”

“Good-night Boyd,” I told him. “Thank you.”

Sawyer said, “
Dea-oíche, mo chara is sine
.”

As Boyd’s footsteps retreated, I whispered to Sawyer, “What does that mean?”

“It means, ‘good-night, my oldest friend,’” he murmured in reply.

“You’ve known Boyd all your life,” I acknowledged.

“I have,” Sawyer agreed, and so long passed before he spoke again that I was nearly asleep. He said softly, “Lorie, I must tell you of something,” and his tone roused me to wakefulness.

“What is it?” I whispered. It was nearly dark within our tent, the fire nothing more than embers, but I could discern the intensity of Sawyer’s gaze, more hawk-like than ever.

“I will keep no secrets from you,” he said. “You are to be my wife, I think of you as such already, and there should be no secrets between husband and wife.”

“Tell me,” I implored, putting my palms on his chest as he angled just above me, on one elbow.

With the fingertips of his free hand he traced over the narrow white scar on his jaw. When he spoke, his voice was low; I sensed his desire to speak freely, but he chose his words with great care, swallowing once, closing his eyes momentarily, before relating the story.

“Boyd and I were with a regiment in Georgia in ’sixty-five when our commanding officer received word of Lee’s surrender. It was well into April by then and I was…utterly empty. I was nothing. I felt as hollow as a dead tree, Lorie, and the only thought in my head was getting home to something familiar, to Mama and Daddy, and the Carters, to our home in the holler. By ’sixty-five, I hadn’t set foot in Tennessee in nearly two years. Boyd and I spoke of home the way you would of heaven, when we spoke at all. If he hadn’t been with me, I would not have survived, this I know. The horror of what we saw – we followed in Sherman’s wake, Lorie, and it was unspeakable.” His jaw clenched and his eyes lifted from my face, staring sightlessly at the edge of the tent. I curled my fingers around the material of his shirt, letting him know without words that I was here, that I would always listen.

His lashes lowered; I wished fervently that I possessed the power to remove whatever atrocities he saw behind the screen of his eyelids. I understood well the prison created by one’s memories. The inescapability of them.

“Lorie,” he breathed and opened his eyes to look deeply into mine. He said softly, “Your eyes are so beautiful. I see in them the blue of the evenings back home, that time of dusk when the air itself is indigo. And then I see the green of willow leaves, the green of spring, and renewal.”

Tears filled my eyes at his adoring words, and he kissed away the two that trickled over my temples.

He whispered, “You don’t know how my heart feels to look upon you, to have found you at last. My heart seems to split open with the force of such feelings. I thought – back then, marching home from Georgia after we were mustered out of the regiment – I thought I would never feel again. That any spark of joy or contentment was dead, forevermore.”

“What happened on the way home?” I asked softly, sensing this was the part of the story that he struggled to relate. I stroked his chest with my thumbs, slow and gentle.

“We were outside Chattanooga that night. By the grace of God, Boyd and I had come across Gus a day earlier, headed west from Virginia. It seemed almost miraculous to see anyone from Suttonville, that any of us had survived such rampant destruction. The Confederacy was ash, and that’s all that seemed left our lives. It was all we could to continue moving forward. We kept to the main roads by day and camped well off them at night, mindful of confronting any other soldiers, Federal or otherwise. Men were desperate then, on both sides, and we wished only to avoid trouble. But that night…”