“Stop it, George.” She turned away, facing the target, and nocked her arrow. “Leave me be. I haven’t the stomach to quarrel with you today.”
When he spoke again, his voice had lost its taunting edge. “No, truly. It is good what you do for him.”
Alma shook her head. She waited to hear retreating footsteps, but George did not move. After several seconds of silence, she raised and drew the bow. A low chuckle rent her concentration. With bow upright and arrow poised to shoot, she spun around. “What?”
George raised his hands above his head, still laughing. “Your form, Azaadiins, it’s very wrong.”
He’d used her Indian name again. She lowered the bow. “I don’t need your help.”
He arched an eyebrow and took a step closer, his arms still raised.
Ignoring his approach, she turned back to the target. “I’m just a little out of practice.”
Footfalls continued toward her through the snow. She drew back the arrow, but stopped when a hand came to rest on her hip.
The air in her lungs froze.
“Here.” He guided her back leg around with his foot, aligning her body perpendicular to the target. He pressed down on her shoulders until her carriage relaxed. Then, mirroring her stance, he moved in close behind her. His left hand grabbed the bow directly below her grip. He matched the curve of her drawing arm with his, their fingers overlapping atop the bowstring.
The target, the trees, the cloudy gray horizon blurred. Alma blinked. George’s breath tickled the back of her neck. They drew back together and loosed the arrow. It whistled through the air, arcing slightly, then descended toward the target. Alma pivoted around without waiting for it to land. George had dropped his arms but not backed up. She looked up into his face, only inches from her own.
Her mother’s voice sounded in the back of her mind, badgering her about propriety and the precise distance of chaste interactions, but when his hand touched her cheek, tilting her head up toward his, she knew nothing but the contact of their skin.
Their lips pressed together. Had she started the kiss or had he? That thought, too, slipped from her mind. He cradled her head fiercely, the pressure of his mouth against hers alternatively rough and tender.
Then, suddenly, he broke apart from her, spinning round on his heels and strolling away. Alma remained frozen, the shock of the encounter rooting her to the ground. A strange mixture of panic and elation bubbled up inside her. The electricity of his touch was like none she’d ever felt. It lingered on her cheek and lips, buzzing like a delicious poison.
Before rounding the corner, George looked over his shoulder. He blinked, mirroring her own bewilderment, then shot her a pulse-quickening grin.
No sooner had he disappeared behind the brick façade than Alma heard the voice of Mrs. Simms.
“Alma!”
She hurried around the house to the kitchen.
“Heaven above, child! That’s the third time I called you.”
“Sorry, ma’am. I . . . I didn’t hear you.”
“What you doing yonder round the house anyway?”
Alma’s chest tightened like a vise. She looked around for George, then remembered he had sauntered off in the opposite direction. Breath rushed from her lungs. Not only had he heard Mrs. Simms, but also had the good sense not to let her see him. “I wanted some fresh air.”
“Mighty cold to be out after some air.”
Alma danced past the cook into the kitchen. Was it cold? She hadn’t noticed.
CHAPTER 26
Minnesota, 1906
She and Stewart made it back to their hotel just as the last rivulets of light drained from the sky. They’d spoken little since their encounter with James and the other agency workers. Alma couldn’t quiet her thoughts, nor did she dare give voice to them. The few conversations Stewart sparked dwindled quickly, like fire set to damp wood.
Dinner passed much the same. She chewed her food, sipped her wine, but tasted nothing. A piss-drunk Indian—that’s what the men had called Zhawaeshk. Would the jury see him any different? And the gunsmith—what would he do? She could picture him in court pointing his grubby finger at Asku. “That there’s the man I sold the gun to.”
Even if he sold other guns of the same model, even if his dealings were illegal, she and Stewart needed more evidence. Her husband tried to look unbothered, just as he had when the men rode up and asked him if he had a spare, as if a man of his station knew anything about shoeing a horse.
She needed to learn more about what had happened to Asku, what had transformed him from the boy she’d loved to the awful man Zhawaeshk described. But she needed to hear it from someone she could trust.
“Dessert, ma’am?” the hotel matron asked.
Alma shook her head. The knowledge of what she must do had set her stomach churning and she regretted eating anything at all.
“I wish we’d gotten more statements, but we haven’t time to go in search of the other witness,” Stewart said between bites of pie. “Tomorrow we must start on the agency’s files.”
“I could try to find them,” Alma said. As well as a few witnesses of her own.
Stewart frowned. “Split up? I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Don’t worry, dearest. I speak the language, remember? And I shan’t go far.” She smiled as she spoke, hoping to give her voice a lightness that belied the sudden flush of dread. Seeing Asku had always been part of the plan, she’d counted on it, prepared for it. But the others? How would she keep the memories at bay? Already she felt them like a vine snaking around her.
“I don’t like the idea. Going to La Crosse was one thing. It’s proper city and you had family there. But White Earth?”
“I’ll be fine,” she lied.
In the quiet of their suite, Alma peeled off her evening gloves and rummaged through her trunk for her needlework. She’d never been any good, not like Catherine or . In truth, she rather detested the activity. But her hands felt charged, restless. She sat down on the lumpy divan and arranged her canvas and thread across her lap. Tomorrow she’d seek out May or maybe Peter. They were several years younger than Alma and had sat rows away at the front of the class. But that was the point, better to interview acquaintances than those formerly called friends. Less painful that way. Less chance they’d dredge up unwanted memories, unspoken names. Her hand slipped and she grazed her finger with the needle. No blood—only a sharp sting.
Stewart took her hand. She’d only dimly registered when he came to sit beside her with the town’s single-paged paper. He kissed the red scratch upon her finger, and then with more force her palm, the inside of her wrist. She could hear the paper crumple in his other hand, watched as he tossed it aside. It drifted like a feather to the floor. His free hand found her waist and pulled her across the worn velveteen toward him. She closed her eyes and waited for that familiar spark, that warm tingle. Nothing came.
She clutched her needlework and stood abruptly. “I best put this away before I stick one of us again.”
She hurried to the bedroom and cast the silly needlepoint into her trunk. What was wrong with her? All she could feel when he touched her was the winter-cold fingers of another. She stood before the vanity and unpinned her hair, glaring at her reflection in the filmy mirror. Get ahold of yourself, Alma. She started on the silk-covered buttons that ran down the back of her dress, but her fingers felt stiff and clumsy.
Behind her, the divan’s seat cushion let loose a haggard whistle, and the sitting room door closed. Stewart’s footfalls padded toward her.
“Let me help.” He brushed her hands away and finished unfastening her buttons. His breath prickled her skin. Her dress fell away and she felt his lips brush the nape of her neck. They traveled downward over her skin while he slid the strap of her chemise from her shoulder. Again, Alma closed her eyes and tried to relax, but her muscles knotted beneath each kiss. His breath felt warm and sticky, his touch like the harassing tickle of a mosquito. He snaked his hands around her waist toward the h
ooks of her corset.
“Was this all a mistake?”
His face pulled away from the crook of her neck, but his arms remained encircled around her. “What?”
Alma wiggled free from his grasp and spun to face him. “Coming here. Do you really think we have a chance at proving Harry innocent?”
“Don’t think about that right now, darling.” He reached again for her waist.
“What if you don’t find anything tomorrow at the agency? Suppose I can’t find any more witnesses.”
He succeeded in unhooking her corset and flung it to the corner. “Then we’ll find another way.”
The blitheness of his comment cooled whatever flame his touch had kindled. He reached for the other strap of her chemise, but she backed away, clutching the thin cotton to her breast.
“Alma, what’s wrong?”
“I just . . . we should have found something more by now. I didn’t think it would be this hard.”
“It troubles you to be among these Indians again.”
“What? No . . . it’s just the circumstances.”
“Why don’t you ever talk about it? Your father’s school. Your former classmates.”
“How often do you speak of your friends from Princeton?”
He took off his tailcoat and tossed it over the back of a chair. “Rarely, but I wouldn’t travel cross-country to exonerate one of them for murder either.”
“You agreed to come!”
They both winced at the volume of her voice. The neighboring guests had probably heard her through the hotel’s thin walls. Stewart moved beside her and sank onto the cushioned vanity stool. He pulled her onto his lap. This time she did not lurch away. “Darling, I know you’re worried about your friend, but you’ve grown so cold and foreign.”
“I’m sorry.” She unfastened his bow tie and pulled it free of his collar. “I shan’t let my temper go again.”
“It’s more than that, Alma.” He tucked a loose curl behind her ear and traced the curve of her face. “You’re fighting for friends I never knew existed. You speak languages I’ve never even heard of. You’re laconic and melancholy. I haven’t seen a true smile cross your lips in over a week.” His featherlight touch moved down her neck, danced over her collarbone, and down. “Open up to me, darling. Help me understand why this all means so much to you.”
So much of her ached to tell him, to rid herself of these lies, to feel his forgiving kiss and make love to him unhaunted by the memory of another. But she couldn’t. The truth would break him as surely as it had broken her. She arched away and faked a yawn. “I’m tired.”
His hand fell to his side and he released her from his lap. He retreated to the far corner of the room and dimmed the lights before undressing. But she had already caught a glimpse of his wounded face.
In bed, she curled up to the very edge of the mattress and clamped her mouth around a sob. Only her eyes had permission to cry. The day covered her like a dirty film. As she hugged her arms to her chest, she realized with some relief it was not Stewart who repulsed her but herself. As much as she feared losing his love, she feared even more that he’d realize her unworthiness and regret he’d ever loved her at all.
CHAPTER 27
Wisconsin, 1890
Mrs. Simms’s voice hummed like a fly at the edge of Alma’s attention. “Don’t overdo it, ladies. Too much water and the crust won’t come out flaky.”
Alma nodded and drizzled another tablespoonful of liquid over the mixture. A tin of lard sat beside her on the vast counter. Flour dust hung in the air. It reminded her of falling snow and of archery and of—
“Tsk! That’s too much.” Minowe batted away Alma’s hand and moved their shared bowl of pie dough out of Alma’s reach.
Half a spoon’s worth of water hit the counter before Alma stopped pouring. “Hmm?”
“Zhiishiib,” Minowe said under her breath. Working beside them, and Alice both laughed.
“Did you call me a duck?” Alma asked.
“The duck is always fooled by the trickster. He’s gullible. Foolish,” Alice said.
Minowe threw a handful more flour into their bowl. “Stupid.”
“I was just following the recipe.”
Minowe shook her head.
Alma sighed and leaned onto the counter. Chin resting on hand, she stared forward at nothing in particular. The piecrust was safe in Minowe’s expert hands. Her thoughts rolled back, cataloging every surreptitious touch, every secret encounter she and course, she used his Menominee name now—had shared over the past weeks. Before, when the very sight of him had vexed her, their paths had crossed continuously. Now that she coveted his company, their encounters seemed too few.
That morning in class, they had brushed past each other en route to their desks. Their eyes met, then retreated. His fingertips grazed the back of her hand.
“Azaadiins,” Asku had whispered to her as she sat stunned several minutes into class. “Open your book. Miss Wells is on her way down the aisle.”
She’d turned to a random page and pretended to read. “Miigwech. You’re a godsend.”
Now, hours later, the back of her hand still tingled with the memory of touch.
The back door of the kitchen swung open and Mr. Simms stomped in, brushing snow from his woolen jacket as the door slammed behind him. “Them extra sacks of taters arrived from the Indian Bureau. Want ’em in the root cellar?”
“That’d be fine, dear,” Mrs. Simms said.
Her husband opened the door a crack and shouted, “Down in the cellar, George.”
Alma’s head sprang up, her eyes fixed on the window above the sink. appeared in the yard, a large sack of potatoes flung over either shoulder. The door to the root cellar creaked open and he descended out of view.
Minowe nudged her. “Hand me the rolling pin.”
Without taking her eyes from the window, Alma groped around the counter until her hand touched the smooth cylindrical pin. She held it out and Minowe took it with a huff.
George reappeared from the cellar and disappeared around the house. Alma frowned, but her eyes were rewarded a minute later when he reappeared carrying two more sacks. Despite the falling snow, he’d removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The sleek, taut muscles of his forearms showed beneath his snow-kissed skin. Wisps of black hair, wet and glossy, fell across his forehead.
Perhaps it was the warmth of the oven Mrs. Simms had stoked for the pies, but Alma felt a flush of heat. Her eyes clung to , following his every step, taking in his expression of placid concentration.
He had just reached the cellar entry when Mrs. Simms’s stocky form moved in front of the window, blocking Alma’s view. Seven large jars teetered in the woman’s arms. Her small eyes scanned the room, her fleshy face bobbing as she glanced at each pair of bakers. “Six, seven, eight, nine . . . We’ll need more cherries. Alice, dear, will you go down to the cellar and—”
Alma’s arm shot up. “I’ll go.”
She bounded out the back door with the cook’s voice trailing behind her, “Very well. Two jars . . .”
Gray afternoon light spilled through the open cellar door, illuminating the dusty flight of stairs.
She left the falling snow and descended. The smell of wet earth, tinged with the scent of onions and brine, hit her nostrils.
No answer.
George? Are you down here?”
Reaching the final step, she looked around, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. Stacked barrels cast oblong shadows against the clay walls. She pushed past strands of dried apples that hung like Spanish moss from the ceiling and ventured a few steps deeper into the room. Damp, stale air filled her lungs. A hand grabbed hold of her and pulled her from the waning shaft of overhead light into the darkness.
Alma screamed, but a calloused palm quickly covered her mouth, muffling the sound. Lips brushed against her neck and a soft shh filled her ears. Her muscles relaxed, but her heart continued to flutter. She turned around, facing the dark o
utline of her assailant. He leaned in to kiss her, but she pulled back. “You frightened me.”
“You scare too easy.”
His arms circled around her waist and drew her close. They kissed frantically, pausing only for breath. His hand flattened on her lower back, pressing her hard against him. Her fingers twined in snow-slickened hair. His lips, at once sweet and salty, tasted delicious against her own. After what seemed like forever and no time at all, they pulled their faces a few inches apart. Neither spoke. Their chests heaved in concert together. She brushed the snow-wetted locks from his forehead and traced the line of his face with her forefinger. When she reached his lips, he captured her hand in his and kissed it.
she said just to feel the syllables tumble over her lips. “What does it mean?”
He considered for a moment. “Sound of the thunder.”
She grinned. “Fitting.”
“My mother took me before the because I had stopped attending to the Catholic school. She thought a spirit worked in me. I stood before the men of the medicine lodge and shouted I had no more need for the white man’s education. My uncle, he was there, and gave me the name.”
“And you didn’t have to go back to the nuns?”
“In the eyes of my uncle and the I was already a man.” paused. “The agent didn’t agree. He came to our home with his fake lawmen, said I must come here. My uncle could do nothing.”
“Here’s better than the Catholic school, though, right?”
He shrugged. “You’re a more better kisser than the nuns.”
At that, she batted him across the shoulder. He staggered theatrically back, bumping into a stack of bagged turnips, pulling her down with him as he fell. Vegetables rolled helter-skelter. They laughed and kissed and laughed some more. His hand drifted from her waist up to her breast. It rested there a single, thudding heartbeat before she brushed it away.
Footsteps sounded above them. “Alma, dear, have you found those cherries?”
She and leapt to their feet and shrank back into the shadows. “Yes, Mrs. Simms. I had some trouble, but I . . . ah . . . I just found them. I’ll be up presently.” She pressed a silent kiss against lips, grabbed two red jars from the nearby shelves of preserves, and hurried up the stairs.
Between Earth and Sky Page 19