Veins of Gold

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  Gentry set the fiddle inside its box, casting Winn a sidelong look. Was he angry? Then again, he might not care what gifts other unmarried men may have given to her. Would Hoss be upset to know Winn was here? That Gentry would rather talk to him than play the music Hoss had given her?

  Winn’s frown morphed into a smile.

  “What?” Gentry dared to ask.

  “We’re going on a trip today,” he said. “Please,” he added.

  Her skin tingled from neck to navel. “What?”

  “I’m going somewhere, and I want you to come with me.” He strode to the table with a Pearl-like excitement. “You’ll like it. I think.”

  Pearl, fully dressed, stumbled out of the bedroom. “Winn! Are you staying for breakfast?”

  “I already ate, but thank you.”

  “I can’t.” The tingling turned cold. She wrung her fist around her index finger. “I mean, just us? Alone?” She paused. “Where would we go?”

  “Do you trust me?” he asked.

  Gentry swallowed, moths fluttering under her ribs. “I can’t just leave Pearl here alone.” There was laundry to fold, and Bounder needed exercise, and the bread wasn’t started—

  “I want to come!” Pearl chimed.

  Grasping the back of a chair, Winn turned his head toward Pearl. “Now Pearl, I can’t court a woman if her sister is tagging along, now can I?”

  A wave of heat scorched the moths and turned Gentry red down to her toes. Her tongue tied in knots. Did he really just say . . . ? Gentry backed away, pressing her fingers to her neck to try and cool herself, but her hands were just as hot as the rest of her.

  Pearl frowned, but she didn’t seem to notice the forward proclamation or the tomato hue of Gentry’s countenance. “I suppose not.”

  “You’re eleven, right?”

  “Twelve.”

  “That’s right, twelve.” Winn grinned. “Practically an adult. Perfectly capable of taking care of yourself and being queen of the house for a while.”

  Gentry grabbed the front of her dress and shook it, trying to cool off. Her thoughts were a racing jumble, and something round and popping—perhaps a mad giggle—bounced beneath her ribs.

  Pearl folded her arms, but her frown lifted. “Yes, I am.” She pointedly gazed at Gentry. “I can even make supper.”

  Gentry’s mouth parted. Yes, Pearl did know how to cook . . . but Gentry couldn’t possibly go anywhere with only Winn, regardless of Pearl’s age. What would Pa think?

  Then again, Pa wasn’t here. Neither was Rooster. Nor Hoss.

  Good heavens, am I considering this?

  “Perfect.” Winn pushed off the chair, clapped his hands, and turned toward Gentry. The twist in his lips told Gentry that neither her color nor her countenance had returned to normal, and that made her fidget. He placed his hands on his hips—Gentry tried very hard not to look at his hips—and said, “Now I just need consent and we’ll be off.” He smirked. “I’ll be a gentleman, Gentry.”

  Knowing he added that last part in reply to her flush only made her skin burn more. Gentry’s eyes moved from Winn to Pearl and back again. This wasn’t really happening, was it? Her mind flipped and stretched, thoughts tilting back and forth like the pans on a scale.

  She found herself nodding.

  Winn gave her a full, genuine smile. Grasping her hand, he said, “Bye, Pearl!” and swung the door open, pulling Gentry into the morning sunlight.

  “You’re a rogue,” she croaked.

  “You make it sound like such a bad thing.” He pulled her toward the stable. Bounder, uninterested, chomped at weeds encroaching her gate.

  Winn led Gentry behind the stable, the back of which faced the untamed territory, as the Abrams lived on the southwest edge of Dry Creek. No one would see them here, and Gentry’s pulse turned wild.

  “Heavens, Gentry, I’m not going to bite you.” Winn released her hand.

  She shook her head. “It’s not that, just . . .” She fumbled over words, but all of them sounded positively stupid in her head, so instead she asked, “Where are we going?”

  “A little north, a lot west.” The seagulls began to pour around the sides of the stable as though Winn merely thought them there, and he probably did. “We’re going to visit the Hagree.”

  Gentry stiffened. “The Indians?”

  “They’re not Indians,” Winn chided as the seagulls swirled about him, forming a white chimney and a gray door with two steps leading up to it. “India is quite a ways from here, though I admit I’ve never been.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to call them?”

  “The Hagree,” he suggested, mirth dancing on his lips. Gentry tried not to look at his lips, but she was doing a poor job of it. “They won’t hurt you, and neither will I. Don’t you trust me?”

  He extended his hand, and Gentry took it, the feel of his skin sending rows of gooseflesh up her arms.

  The house of birds looked just as it had the first time she’d stepped into it—a marblesque room with blocky shelves and furniture, a golden, mystical light glowing in the corners. This time, however, as Winn stepped in behind her, the door broke into two dozen flapping wings, the entrance sealing completely. The floor seemed to shoot upward, forcing Gentry’s stomach toward her pelvis. She stumbled, and Winn caught her by the forearms.

  “Sorry, sorry, should have warned you.” He led her to a wall so she could steady herself. “I don’t have company often.”

  He rapped two knuckles on the wall, and the magicked gulls reorganized themselves, expanding the wall ever so slightly as they made room for a window.

  Wind gushed up and over Gentry, blowing through her hair and reminding her that she hadn’t grabbed her bonnet before leaving the house. She blinked against the rushing air and gripped the sill, peering out.

  Her breath rushed into the wind as the mountains fell away from the house, as the sky grew larger and larger overhead. The house of birds moved diagonally into the very sky itself at an impressive speed. She saw every speck of sagebrush, every trail and road leading into and away from Dry Creek, even a few spirits on the mountains.

  She jumped as a carmine-colored being swept by the window, pausing on its three wings to study her in a very catlike fashion before flying away again. Gentry stuck her head out the window and watched it soar away, the gold pendant of her necklace rattling against her collar.

  The house neared the clouds and slowed, floating a little more smoothly as it continued west.

  “This is astounding.” Gentry’s words were more air than voice. Winn watched her as he leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest. “This is how you see the world every day? You act like it’s so commonplace.”

  He stepped forward and glanced out the window, the air tousling his golden hair. “I suppose it seems that way, after so long.” His lips turned up ever so slightly. “But I’m glad you like it.”

  “How do you do all this?” She studied the faraway world. “Aren’t you afraid they’ll see you?”

  He shook his head. “The birds know how to hide us.”

  Gentry leaned out the window a little farther, fingers clutching the sill. Westward. This could take them all the way to California, couldn’t it? Winn had offered, once. How would she explain to her father, were they to find him?

  “The Hagree are the reason I know anything of this world,” Winn said, a little softer.

  “They’re magicians?”

  Winn shrugged. “There are few people who can see the world the way you and I can; a few of them live with this tribe.”

  She glanced to him, but his gaze had settled beyond the window. Instead of prodding, she asked, “How often do you see them?”

  Again, a twitch of a smile. “Not often enough.”

  The house jolted. Shrieking, Gentry grasped the sill with hands and arms. Winn did the same, one protective arm around her. The touch spurred the most pleasant buzzing sensation in her torso until the house dropped and Gentry’s stomach lurched.

>   Winn cursed under his breath. He released her and lifted himself onto the sill, leaning out too far to be safe, peering into the sky. “It’s a hawk. Come on, friends! You’re bigger than it is!”

  The house lurched again.

  Winn tugged an earring from his right lobe—it looked painful—and held it out in his palm, turned toward the current so the wind wouldn’t blow it away. Gentry’s heart raced. Winn just kept his arm outstretched.

  “What are you doing?” she cried.

  “Gathering air,” he said, not nearly as alarmed as he should be, especially as the house shifted once more and he nearly fell out a window. Gentry grabbed a fistful of his pant leg in a white-knuckled grip.

  “Takes a minute to get the kind that listens,” he added.

  His earring disappeared.

  “Here we go.” He let go of the sill and leaned out, his knees barely gripping the house. Gentry yelped and grabbed his other pant leg.

  Winn pulled his right hand back—the one that had borne the earring—and then threw it forward as though throwing a heavy ball. He waited, looking up, and finally reached back for the sill, his hair windblown as he slid into the house.

  “All better.” He grinned.

  Gentry released him and stepped back as the house steadied. “What was that?”

  “I told you, a hawk. It’s gone now.”

  Gentry gaped at him, her pulse hammering down her arms and at the back of her neck. “Winn Henry Maheux!”

  He cocked an eyebrow and laughed. “I don’t have a middle name.”

  “It sounds more serious if I use one,” she countered. She pressed a hand to her breast to still her frantic heart. “If this is your idea of courting me, you’re out of your mind!”

  Winn burst into laughter far more emphatic than Gentry had ever heard. Boisterous enough that, despite herself, she smiled too.

  He sat down on a seagull-bench, holding his side. With his other hand he wiped at a tear. “Oh, Gentry,” he said between chuckles, “you and I are going to get along swimmingly.”

  Gentry leaned into a wall when the house began to descend. She peered out the window and didn’t recognize a thing—even the Wasatch Mountains had vanished from sight. There was a stretch of desert and sagebrush behind them and a patch of green ahead, though nothing out west would ever be as green as Virginia. Still, it was beautiful.

  Winn gently grasped her forearm for support as the house landed. Two heartbeats after it did, the marble-like structure fractured and flew apart, the seagulls becoming seagulls once more. They took off into the green in two massive flocks, only a few cries among them.

  Winn put his hands on his hips. “They need a rest.” He looked around for a moment before extending his hand to Gentry. “This way.”

  Gentry slipped her hand into his, shivering at the sensation of his skin against hers. He smiled and pulled her just a little north of the seagulls’ flight.

  Rocky patches cut through the green, a lot of which was comprised of shrubs and short trees. There were a few shallow creeks, which surprised Gentry, given the dry summer heat. There must have been a lake or river nearby. In the distance sat mountains half the size of the Wasatch, with softer peaks and duller coloring, almost like they were giant mounds of sand. Gentry fanned herself with her free hand as they walked; the house of birds had kept them cool during the trip, and now she had to readjust to the heat.

  Winn helped her over a rocky creek bed and paused, listening, eyes focused on some stubby trees at the top of an incline. His gold-flecked eyes searched for a long moment.

  Gentry swallowed. “Is something there?”

  “Nothing that will hurt us.” His gaze landed on a particular copse of trees. He waved his arm back and forth before continuing on. Gentry studied the area as they passed, but she couldn’t tell what had caught Winn’s attention. An Indian? Surely Winn wouldn’t be waving to a mountain lion.

  They climbed a hill, and when they crested it, Gentry looked down onto a village of Indian huts—Winn called them wickiups. They weren’t the teepees Gentry always saw in pictures and heard described in stories. These dwellings were wide and round on top, assembled from branches and animal hides and all things earthy. They were comparable in size to Gentry’s home in Dry Creek.

  A few Indians—Hagree—noticed her and Winn. Her skin seemed to tighten. While the caravan Gentry had crossed the plains with had no violent run-ins with natives, stories of bloodshed and rape circulated through the settlements she’d passed through. She urged her speeding heart to calm. Winn had said this tribe was friendly. They were his friends. Didn’t it mean something if Winn trusted her enough to bring her here? She took deep breath after deep breath, trying to quench a strange thirst in her lungs.

  As they neared, a few of the Hagree stared. Gentry squeezed Winn’s hand harder. Other Hagree jumped like startled deer and ran farther into the camp, shouting something in a hard, foreign language Gentry’s tongue could never hope to imitate.

  Perhaps they were just as scared of her as she was of them.

  Stepping close enough to Winn to walk on his heels, she said, “Are you sure—”

  “You’re safe,” he murmured. “Trust me.”

  Gentry’s grip didn’t relax.

  An older Hagree man jogged down the center of the village—there were no roads—his face sun-wrinkled and dark, his chest uncovered. He wore a sort of short skirt made of two thin hides stitched together—rabbit?—and had two raccoon tails tacked to one hip. His dark, gray-streaked hair was held back by a rust-red band of cloth. He wore western-style boots. At his side trotted a small fox, of all things, its coat orange and thin.

  He shouted something at Winn in that same hard tongue and smiled, stopping only two paces away. Gentry hid half herself behind Winn as the Hagree man continued talking, but this time it sounded like . . . French?

  Winn laughed and replied in kind. He released Gentry and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, touching his forehead to the man’s. Turning back to Gentry, he said something else in French and gestured to her.

  The man uttered a few words and nodded, his grin widening. The smile helped her relax. She noticed he had two gold studs identical to Winn’s in each ear. Did this man know about magic too?

  Gentry glanced to the fox and back again. “English, please?”

  Winn grinned. “This is Waga. He was one of my caretakers when I lived with the Hagree. I just introduced you.”

  Gentry nodded and met Waga’s dark eyes. “Hello.” She tried not to sound as small as she felt.

  “Hello,” he repeated with a smile and a thick accent. “Hello.”

  He spouted a jumble of words to Winn—only a few were French, Gentry thought—and waved for them to follow. Much to Gentry’s relief, Winn took her hand again, rooting her in the one familiar thing she had in this place: himself.

  “That’s Awenasa.” He pointed to a woman grinding something in a bowl, a babe tied to her back. “She had another! Goodness, that woman must have thirteen or fourteen children by now.”

  Winn’s casual manner put Gentry further at ease. “So many?” Even the Mormons would be impressed.

  “That’s called lacrosse,” he continued, pointing to some young boys carrying around large sticks with spoon-shaped nets at their ends. A few noticed Winn and Gentry and stopped to stare. Winn gestured beyond them. “That’s Kanagotta—he’s an ornery fellow.”

  Gentry locked eyes with a middle-aged Indian sitting cross-legged outside a wickiup. He scowled at her, and she quickly averted her eyes.

  They walked a little farther before Winn turned, angling his body against Gentry’s. “Focus on Waga.”

  Gentry stared at the old man’s back, which looked something like a raisin. Her gaze dropped to the fox heeling him. She caught that faint shimmer around its tail identical to the one Winn’s seagulls sported. “Why?”

  “Unless you want to see a pronghorn being gutted.”

  She was no stranger to cutting into animals for
meat, but the largest creature she’d ever carved was a duck, and she never enjoyed it. She focused on the stitching of Waga’s skirt. “No, thank you.”

  Waga quickened his pace and veered right, calling out in his hard Hagree tongue. A moment later an equally wrinkled woman came out and rushed to Winn, giving him the same forehead-touching gesture as Waga had before. She prattled at him in all hard syllables for a long minute before noticing Gentry and prattling more.

  Waga answered.

  “How much of this do you understand?” Gentry whispered to Winn, who leaned down to hear her better.

  He shrugged. “About half. Saleli,” he gestured to the woman conversing with Waga, “is very traditional and has no desire to learn any white-man languages, but she expects you to understand everything she says.” A nostalgic smile touched his lips. “Saleli is Waga’s wife, more or less.”

  Gentry felt herself blush. “More or less?”

  Winn left it at that, for Saleli returned to him and jabbered more. Winn gave a few one-word responses in what Gentry assumed was Hagree by the sound. His accent softened the words. Then Saleli turned to Gentry with a cross expression and spoke to her. Gentry stiffened.

  Winn whispered, “Just nod.”

  Gentry nodded. Saleli quieted and folded her arms, seeming somewhat appeased, and stepped inside her wickiup.

  “Winn?” Gentry asked. “What did I just agree to?”

  Winn shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Saleli returned, grabbed Winn’s wrist, and slapped her hand against his. Winn closed his fist and said a single Hagree word with a low bow of his head.

  Waga claimed his attention then, exchanging a few words in broken French, though Gentry thought she heard one or two words in English, before guiding Winn to a few more people, one of whom Winn identified as the chief, who had also been one of his caretakers. Winn exchanged a few words with Chief Sequah—again in a mix of Hagree and French—before leading Gentry toward the edge of the little village, toward a copse of rough-barked trees. Gentry found a seat on a splintering log and stared at the sky. A little past noon. She wondered how Pearl was faring without her.