Grace of a Hawk

by Abbie Williams

  “Mary had only just told me that you were alive. And knowing it, I felt as though I had been given wings.”

  I lifted our joined fingers and kissed her knuckles, one after the other in a path along her hand. Nightly, before the boys retired to the wagon to bed, I inspected her stomach, slowly allowed reprieve from my fear as the wounds healed with no gathering infection and where only puckered scars now remained. Her ribs had healed as best as Tilson could figure; she kept careful in her movements and I would not allow her to tote water or lift heavy things, and she’d mended well, thanks be to Jesus. Lingering there in the dimness of our wagon I would kiss her soft belly, following a path down to the center of her, where her skin was salty sweet against my tongue; with renewed vigor, I imagined the bedroom I would construct for the two of us, in which we would not be forced to rush through a blessed moment of anything.

  “I’m right here, darlin’,” I promised, resting our joined hands against my thigh. “I ain’t going anywhere again.”

  That night we gathered at the fire and the mood was rife with gaiety. Accompanied by Jacob on his harmonica, I played for a solid hour, the stars rowdy with no moon to overpower them. A rose-washed sun sank into a sky of dusty blue hours since and the heat of the day had thinned, leaving behind an evening the likes of which I wished I could tuck away for safekeeping, so fair and fine it was. Brown bats darted above our heads, feasting on the mosquitoes that feasted on us; fireflies glinted and winked in the tall grass beyond the fire while Jacob and I played with great and unrestrained joy; how I loved the feeling of Rebecca’s smiling eyes upon me as she clapped along.

  Lorie leaned against Sawyer with Rose on her lap, the baby wide-eyed at the noisy excitement, as Malcolm, who would have once coaxed and begged until Lorie danced with him now spun Cora in an untutored waltz. Lorie, no doubt thinking the same thing, caught my eye across the fire and between us passed a depth of awareness, a warm acknowledgment of all that had led us to this moment. Neither of us would be here without the other. Cort and Natty danced together, tripping over each other’s toes, laughing all the while. Tilson smoked his pipe, grinning to observe the commotion, while Stormy prowled about our ankles.

  “By this time tomorrow, we’ll be home!” Malcolm enthused, twirling Cora as ’round and ’round they went. “Can you-all believe it?”

  I winked at my wife and the kindling in my heart glowed all the brighter. The lesson was one it had taken me a damn long time to learn, but I finally understood. Surrounded by those I loved, recognizing the grace of this fortune, I said, “We’s home right now, at this here fire.”

  THE END

  THE STORY BEGUN in Heart of a Dove was born long before I ever wrote it, and so to have typed the final sentence in a trilogy based on an idea that sprang to life in my mind as a young girl not yet twenty is something of a wonder. Twenty years later, as a woman who just edged past forty, I am overcome with a sincere, humble sense of accomplishment. I love these characters as dearly as cherished friends whose lives I’ve shared now for years. Imagine an old-fashioned film reel projecting flickering images across a faded screen. You hear the clickety-clacking of advancing film; observe the sepia-toned, spot-flecked and disjointed pictures. Then, all at once, the reel jams – bam! the film is lodged on a smudged and slightly grainy scene of a wagon on a prairie.

  You step closer, curious to see more, and suddenly sunlight from another century altogether touches your face with its dusty warmth. You smell sweet-grass and horses. You hear distant laughter, carried to your ears on a friendly trail of wind. And the prairie becomes a sweeping, sprawling panorama of life, no longer a two-dimensional image on a screen. Sensations pelt you, along with nostalgia; in fact, you know you belong here. You aren’t certain how you know, but that’s all right. It’s not important in this moment. You glance down and spy in your hands a tattered journal with a pencil tucked between its pages, misshaping the binding and begging you to take up where you left off with the story last night. And so, with a grin, you do.

  So many people are involved in the production of a book. I must thank my publisher, Michelle Halket at Central Avenue, for continuing to accompany me on this book-making journey. Without her words of encouragement, suggestions, and overall moral support, I would not be the writer I am today. Further, I must thank the amazing people at Independent Publishers Group, whose dedicated work ensures that the words I write reach bookstores in lands near and far. I would love to thank those incredible bloggers whose kind and inspiring reviews also keep me busy curled over my keyboard – most especially Mary, Shannon, and Bri!

  My family, as always, deserves a huge debt of gratitude for sharing me with the characters who roam and stampede through mind on a daily basis, not to mention steal me away for hours at a time. (Thank you, frozen pizza, for being readily available for dinner). I want to send a special note of love to my oldest daughter, Ashley, whose global travels (she currently resides in Lima, Peru) and insights about life and wonder and the world in general inspire me each and every day. I want to thank my dear and wonderful writer friend, Molly Ringle, with whom I exchange frequent emails and who remains the number one person I want to meet in Real Life, rather than via online communication. Thank you for all your support! Two other kind souls whose wisdom I count upon are Roger and Kristin – you have helped me more than you will ever know, and I thank you both.

  And finally, to Boyd Carter, whose story I feel privileged to tell in Grace of a Hawk. I hope you enjoy his voice as much as I do.