The vast backyard was nearly empty. Mr. Simms lounged in the open doorway of the wood shop, arms crossed, his cloudy expression untouched by the day’s gaiety. His hooded eyes followed the movement of the few guests who milled about inside, viewing the equipment and machinery. Alma wondered if they noticed the stain, the dark patch beside the lathe where Charles’s blood had seeped into the floorboards. No, she decided. Her father was a man of details. He would have made sure it was covered for the occasion. The boy had recovered, after all. Still, Alma lingered, the tray growing heavy in her arms. Yes, he’d recovered, but he would never be the same.
A flash of movement in the kitchen window caught her attention. She hurried inside.
The large room, always a center of bustle and activity, for once lay still. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, casting the room in a golden glow.
she whispered, setting the tray of cookies atop the counter.
He waved to her from between two towering cupboards. Stepping around the butter churn and a broom, she joined him in the small cranny.
“Before you tell me anything I have to—”
He silenced her with a kiss, his lips hungry, urgent. She forgot whatever it was she wanted to say and leaned into his embrace. When she was all but starved of breath, he pulled away. They crouched down for better concealment amid the jumble of kitchenware, their knees touching, backs pressed against the sides of cupboards. leaned forward and kissed her again.
Unease built in her stomach, even while his lips lingered over her own. A fierceness infused his embrace, an undercurrent of emotion she couldn’t quite name. She pulled back. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”
“Mr. Wallis talked to me today of his carriage works.”
Alma spoke over him. “I knew when I saw your reaction to Asku’s speech—”
“Mr. Simms vouched for my skill with the saw and the lathe and the—”
“I knew you’d made up your mind to return to the reservation.”
“He hired me on at a dollar a day!”
Alma blinked. “What? You’re not leaving?”
He shook his head. Her elbow struck the butter churn as she reached for him. It teetered but did not fall. They laughed, and when their laughter was spent, they kissed again.
“Where will you stay?” she asked.
“Mr. Wallis recommended a boardinghouse near of the shop.”
Her smile faltered. “Do they take on . . . er . . .”
“Indians? Mr. Wallis seemed to think so.”
“And Father could write a letter recommending you.” She squeezed hand. “You’re really going to stay here in La Crosse?”
Alma felt weightless. Sunlight fell like a halo around them, gilding the broom and butter churn and cupboards, erasing from view the dust and cobwebs. She leaned forward and rested her head against his chest. His heartbeat—a pace quicker than its usual steady rhythm—sounded in her ear.
“Shan’t you miss your home?” she asked.
His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “Every day. The smell of pine trees, the smiling faces of my brothers and sisters, the sound of the , our sacred drum.” His arms tightened around her and he burrowed his fingers into her pinned-up curls. “But I would miss you more.”
“We don’t have to stay here forever. In La Crosse, I mean. We could settle closer to your reservation. Maybe Milwaukee or Green Bay. You could open your own carriage repair shop. I could work at a grammar school or teach piano.”
body shook with laughter. “You? A teacher like ?”
“I wouldn’t be so wicked as her.” She scowled in her best Miss Wells impression. “But I certainly wouldn’t tolerate troublemakers like you.”
“That’s not the life of you.” His voice was thick, suddenly void of humor. “You were meant for big houses and fancy dinners, china and silver.”
Alma lifted her head to meet his eyes. “I don’t need all that finery.”
“You don’t want to marry some rich white man?”
“No.”
The glint in his eyes faded, leaving them hard and weary as petrified wood. “You should, Azaadiins.” But as he said this, his arms tightened around her. “We’re not a good match, you and I.”
“We’re a perfect match.” She pulled back slightly from his embrace. Why didn’t he see that? What did it matter if they came from different worlds, so long as . . . She took a deep breath. “I love you.”
For all their joking before in the woods, she’d never actually said the words. Now she felt suddenly wary and unclothed. Her heart pounded through the ensuing silence. Had he heard her? Did he feel the same? His actions spoke of love, staying here instead of returning to his home, but nevertheless she longed for him to say it.
The light around them faded, obscured by some fleeting cloud. eyes dropped to the dusty floor and his brow furrowed. Despite the balmy day and warmth radiating from his body, Alma shivered.
Another moment of silence, then smiled—that wry, crooked smile she so adored. He raised his gaze to hers. “. I love you, too.”
Alma reached for him, not caring if she knocked over the butter churn or broom or even the entire cupboard. He loved her and he would stay. They kissed and huddled close until approaching footsteps outside shooed them away. Nothing of the rest of the day seemed to touch her—not Mr. Chase’s salacious glances, not Lily’s endless prattle, not the hours of cleanup after the guests had left. She watched the sun glide toward the horizon until it hung red and brilliant above the trees, its rays—for a fleeting moment—a bridge between earth and sky.
CHAPTER 31
Minnesota, 1906
Alma stood a moment in the middle of the empty road, her eyes adjusting to the bright midday light, her ears ringing from the blaring ripsaw, her nerves alight like an electric bulb. The hem of her skirt thrashed in the wind. How could Frederick be so cold? Didn’t he still care? If not for her, for Asku. Find Minowe—that was his advice. Her jaw set and she shook her head. There had to be another way.
Clothes flapped on a laundry line at the back of a nearby house. Beyond the drying shirts and trousers, vines crawled across the yard. Yellow and green squash sat fat on the ground. Cornstalks rustled, their ears long since harvested, their leaves dry, brown, dead.
Peel back the husk and we’re empty, hollowed out.
She turned from Frederick’s workshop and marched toward the agency. The whine of the saw blade faded behind her. He was wrong. She remembered how he’d smiled on graduation day, how dapper he’d looked in his new suit, how he’d sat enrapt listening to Asku’s speech. Something had been taken from them, yes, but something greater replaced it. A way to survive and thrive in the changing times. She’d lived that tenet her entire life, heard the echo of those words since her earliest days: her father’s pontificating, Miss Wells’s lectures, the rhymes they’d been made to memorize about Senator Dawes and his liberating legislation. It couldn’t all be wrong.
The wind gusted again, stronger now, catching on the brim of her hat and yanking it free from her hair. She held it fast against her head and leaned into the gale. She forced Frederick’s words from her mind, beat back thoughts of the depressing annuity line, and focused on the clapboard houses standing at intervals along the drive. Calico curtains fringed their windows. The scent of baking bread and roasting meat wafted toward her on the wind.
Laughter drew her eyes to a nearby schoolyard. Children ran about with sticks and balls, impervious to the wind, their faces lit with carefree smiles. Alma’s step lightened. The quaint houses, the bustling school—White Earth Village was just like any other country town. A far cry from the sparse cabins and lone trading post her Chippewa friends had described to her a quarter century before. There might be problems, but the Indians were thriving here.
Inside the agency, the cheer she’d mustered quickly flagged. Stewart sat in one corner, all but the top of his head concealed behind teetering stacks of papers and ledgers. She’d feared Agent Taylor would try to hide
or withhold documents despite the subpoena. It appeared now he’d chosen the opposite attack and provided every file and scrap on hand for them to sift through.
She hesitated before crossing the room, dreading more strained conversation, more tiptoeing around last night’s argument. But when he looked up over the wall of paperwork, the flint was gone from his eyes. He grabbed a chair from the corner, brushed off the seat, and set it beside his own.
“Have you found anything?” she asked.
“Not as yet, I’m afraid.” He gestured to the piles. Still more surrounded them on the floor. “Staggering really, the disorder of it all. I’ve managed to sort out most of the older documents. I shouldn’t think we’d need anything before 1890. What did you learn from the store clerk?”
She peeled off her gloves and tossed them onto the table. “Nothing of import.”
“You were gone quite some time.”
“The clerk directed me to another man.” For a moment, she could hear the ripsaw. “He hadn’t any answers either.”
Stewart sighed. “That’s a shame. Witness testimony would strengthen our case.”
“What about Zhawaeshk?”
Stewart nodded toward the ginger-haired agency worker they’d met on the road the night before. “He was right. When the jury learns Zhawaeshk’s a drunk, his credibility is lost.” He raked back his hair and smiled weakly, his bottom lip still red and slightly swollen. “Let’s hope we can find something here.”
Alma eyed the stacks and felt a stir of panic. Asku’s salvation lay here? In this mess? Stewart, however, seemed altogether placid. Scrounging for witnesses, scuffling among grave houses, settling lame horses—how trying yesterday must have been for him. Here, at last he was in his element. He needed only a housecoat and slippers, and the sight of him would be no different than a quiet, peaceful evening at home. His posture was straight as always, his notebook and pen arranged neatly, his attention already returned to the document at hand.
She pulled a thick file from atop one of the stacks. “What are we looking for?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” he said without glancing up from his work.
Not sure? Dozens of piles and they weren’t even sure what they were looking for?
“Don’t worry, darling. I’ll know when I’ve found it. Just set aside anything related to Mr. Muskrat or anything else that strikes you as odd.”
The potbellied stove in the far corner hissed and crackled. The smoke smelled faintly of pinesap. She shrugged out of her duster and opened the folder. Inside was a collection of citations: heathenish dancing, destruction of property, plural marriage, conjurer’s arts, improper gifting, lechery, and intoxication. Even offenses as trivial as long hair and infrequent school attendance had incurred a fine or reduction in rations. “This is ridiculous.”
Several employees looked over with narrowed eyes and pinched expressions. She met their stare, then turned to Stewart. “What harm is there in dancing or gift giving?”
“Did you see Mr. Muskrat’s name on any of those citations? Or anyone else cited multiple times?”
“No.” In truth, she hadn’t paid attention to the names, only the offenses. She’d danced those dances; helped her friends “conjure” medicines out of dogbane, wild peas, and snakeroot; taken their gifts and given gifts in return.
“Anything strange or suspicious, put in this pile,” Stewart said, indicating a small stack beside him.
Everything was strange to her—not the acts themselves, but that the Indians’ lives should be so regulated.
She came across a field service report about a young unmarried woman found to be with child. If the father were also single, the report recommended the couple be made to wed. Were he not single, more severe action—fines or even jail time—should be assessed, and the baby put up for adoption.
The paper crunched and rumpled under her tightening grip. To live under such scrutiny! To have such private matters discussed, debated, cataloged. And the baby. She stared forward at the far wall, the yellow maps bleeding into the white plaster, the cabinets and bureaus and tables and chairs all blurring into shapeless, nameless objects. This was not the life she’d imagined for her friends. Not the life promised them.
Hadn’t it been that way at Stover, though? The litany of rules, the stiff punishment, the constant surveillance. She’d been a fool to think they’d be handed freedom after graduation.
“Find something?”
Alma straightened and looked at Stewart. “Hmm?”
“I know this is tedious, darling. Should you like to take in some air? Or I can see after some tea?”
“It isn’t that. It’s just, this is all so”—she waved a hand over the papers—“so bleak.”
He teased the report from her fist and scanned its contents. “Yes, I’ve seen several of these field reports.”
“What business is it of the agency’s if they marry in the Christian fashion or not?”
“Surely you’re not suggesting they . . .” He paused and lowered his voice. “Engage in amorous congress without official contract.”
“What is making love if not an avowal of one’s affections and devotion?”
He regarded her with a stunned expression. “Debauchery.”
Alma dropped her gaze. Her cheeks burned. “I simply meant that they have their own marital customs.”
“Customs forbade by the law. Laws policed by the agency.”
His unimpassioned voice only enflamed her further. All logic, no emotion. Black and white without any gray. She stood and crossed to a nearby window. Water spots clouded the glass. She pressed her hand against the surface. How smooth. How fragile. She imagined her ungloved hand breaking through to the outside, the filmy glass cracking and splintering, its jagged shards red with her blood. She pressed a little harder.
A hand lit upon the small of her back. Stewart’s. She’d know his touch if she were blind.
“I’m sorry, darling,” he said quietly. “I know these people were your friends. I didn’t mean to imply they were all criminals and debauchers.”
Not just them—her too.
The glass was cool beneath her fingers. A touch more pressure and it would shatter.
At last, she pulled away—away from the glass, away from Stewart’s hand. “I’m no help to you here.”
“Nonsense. You’re a great help.”
She looked at the mountains of papers and ledgers and knew he was lying. There was only one way she could help: Minowe. “I’ll just take a quick stroll about the yard.”
“Don’t go far.”
She grabbed her coat, skirting his gaze. “I shan’t.”
CHAPTER 32
Wisconsin, 1891
Despite the hearty fire crackling in the marble hearth, a chill lingered in the Steeles’ parlor. It hung in the dour expression of the hostess and her daughter. It prickled across Alma’s skin during the prolonged silences that riddled their conversation.
“There’s a promise of snow in those clouds,” Old Mrs. Lawrence said, waving a wrinkled hand at the gray sky peeking through the Oriental lace drapery.
Alma nodded in concert with the others and sipped her lukewarm tea.
“Probably the same storm that ravaged Dakota,” Lily Steele said. Then, as if realizing her blunder, she bit her lip and dropped her gaze to the damask rug.
Alma set down her teacup and braced herself. Her silly friend had opened the door to the subject the others had been too decorous, but plainly fiending, to bring up.
“I heard the Indians’ corpses are still there, lying frozen on the field, on account of the blizzard,” Mrs. Lawrence’s granddaughter said in a whisper, as if trading bits of post-soirée gossip.
Alma’s stomach clenched.
“Ruth!” Mrs. Lawrence shot the girl a scandalized look.
Mrs. Steele straightened in her chair and raised her chin. The gaslit chandelier cast the sharp features of her face in a sallow glow. “Serves those savages right. However do you rest at nig
ht, Cora? Those Indian children might slaughter you while you sleep.”
“It’s been a trying few days.” Alma’s mother put a hand to her cheek and sighed. “Mr. Blanchard insists we have nothing to fear. Even in light of this uprising at Wounded Knee, he sees nothing but goodness in them.”
“Murderous devils!” Mrs. Lawrence said.
Alma flinched at the old woman’s words. Her fingers dug into the folds of her dress.
Mrs. Lawrence continued. “Have you any of those . . . those . . . what band are those hostiles from?”
“Sioux,” Alma said.
“Does it matter what tribe they come from?” Mrs. Steele said. “Their malign traits are universal.”
Lily glanced at Alma as she refilled the teacups. It was a look of pity, not solidarity. “It would be unchristian of us not to try, Mother.”
“We’d be better off were they all dead,” Mrs. Steele replied.
Alma reached for her tea with a trembling hand. The cup rattled against its saucer, liquid sloshing over the edge. She gave up and returned the teacup back to the table. “Women and children were among those massacred.”
All five women turned cold, questioning gazes upon her.
“Are you implying the soldiers are to blame for this incident?” Mrs. Lawrence asked.
Alma’s mother let out a trill of laughter. “No, of course not. A rancher’s wife and daughter were taken after the battle in one of those retaliatory raids organized by the savages.” She looked at Alma with piercing eyes. “Alma was just referring to those poor Christian souls.”
Alma clenched her jaw, refusing to be cowed by her mother’s stare.
“Good heavens, I hadn’t heard that.” Mrs. Lawrence clutched the satin bow about her gizzard-like neck. “Do you think any of the older boys at Stover might run off and join this red rebellion?”
“Believe me, we keep a very close eye on them. Mr. Simms has never failed in tracking down a runaway.”
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