Heart of a Dove

by Abbie Williams

  “Thank you,” I told him. “I must look a mess.”

  “We’ll camp and then you can tidy up,” Angus assured me. He cast his gaze about the creek bank and then said, “Perhaps here.”

  “And wash all of these clothes,” I added, as Sawyer’s deep voice yelped in hoarse laughter and seconds later Boyd’s cry of surrender rose over the water.

  “No, never!” Malcolm huffed. “Carters never surren—” His words were cut short as he was yanked back into the water with a tremendous splash.

  “For certain here,” Angus said then.

  The sun was half-sunk in the west before the tents had been erected, the fire built, and the horses set to graze twenty yards out. Angus strung a clothes line between two trees, and most of our laundry was fluttering in a light evening breeze; two pairs of soaking boots had been set out to start drying in the last of the sun. Malcolm was at present seated atop Boyd’s back, sideways, which put him at an appropriate height for trimming his hair. He had a handkerchief stuffed up one nostril, courtesy of a bloody nose from playing in the creek. I had reprimanded all three of them, much to their collective amusement. Boyd, growing contrite, played along very nicely as I’d cast about for something even fractionally resembling a barber’s chair. He observed me for a moment and then crawled over on hands and knees like a donkey and waited patiently until I realized. I was back in my own clothes, my damp hair braided and hanging over one shoulder as I regarded Malcolm’s wet, shaggy head with my mother’s brush in one hand and the new scissors in the other.

  Sawyer and Gus sat at the fire, cleaning their rifles and watching the proceedings with interest. I tried not to let myself be too utterly distracted by the hawk eyes I could feel lingering upon me time and again; it was all I could do not to fall right into them.

  “Boyd, you must hold still,” I complained, giggling at the sight of him, barefoot and solid as an ox, letting Malcolm sit upon his back. I draped a linen over both Malcolm’s shoulders and under him, to catch the clipped hair.

  Boyd hung his head and mourned, “Boy, your rear is bony as a witch’s ribs. I’ll be bruised to hell.”

  Malcolm wiggled purposely and Boyd threatened, “I’ll buck you off!”

  “Stop it, both of you!” I told them. “Or I’ll never get this done.”

  “Hear that, our sis is taking a tone with us,” Boyd said, and I poked him in the leg with my bare toes.

  I turned the scissors lengthwise and clamped them between my lips to free my hands for brushing, as Mama used to when she would trim up my brothers. I worked the bristles and my fingers through Malcolm’s thick dark hair, untangling as gently as I could manage. His slim shoulders drooped and he muttered, “That feels right nice, Lorie.”

  Once combed soft, I set the brush to the ground and used my first two fingers as markers to gauge how much to trim, again mimicking Mama. I worked around Malcolm’s head, stopping when he’d shiver.

  “Sorry, it gives me chills,” he explained.

  “Lorie-girl, my arms ain’t gonna hold forever,” Boyd warned. He looked over at Sawyer and added, “You’re next there, dandy man.”

  Sawyer laughed at that, though my eyes flickered to his golden hair, wishing I could untie its binding and then feel it beneath my hands. I imagined how I would wind my fingers into it, press my lips against it…

  “Not him, he’s right vain about his hair,” Malcolm teased, as he had told me days before. He singsonged, “What would ladies have to run their fingers through?”

  Angus snorted and then chuckled, as Sawyer shook his head slowly at Malcolm and went back to oiling his rifle.

  Boyd suggested amiably, “How about—”

  Malcolm cut him off with a slap to the back of the head, yelping, “Not in front of Lorie!”

  “There, you’re all done,” I told the boy, ignoring their teasing, moving in front of him and taking him by the shoulders to inspect my work.

  “Thanks Lorie-Lorie. How do I look?” he asked eagerly.

  My heart swelled with love for him. I smiled and said, “You’re welcome. And very nice. Properly trimmed up.”

  He threw off the towel and rose, while Boyd rolled to a sitting position and said, “Have we the cards handy, Gus? I could relish a good game or two.”

  “We have,” Angus said agreeably. “Give me a minute or so.”

  I wanted to join the card game, for no other reason than to be near Sawyer a little longer, but I was so tired. They built the fire under the awning attached to my tent and I wanted to hug all of them good-night, but hadn’t the nerve. They took such incredible, tender care of me, I almost couldn’t bear the kindness. It seemed too precious, something to which I should certainly not grow accustomed if I had learned anything at all from life.

  “I’m turning in,” I said, addressing Malcolm, though I included all of them when I added, “Good-night.”

  “G’night, sis,” Boyd said, lighting a smoke, then waving out the match flame.

  “’Night,” Malcolm said, and hugged me close.

  “Good night,” Angus said. “Take a lantern, if you need.”

  Last to Sawyer, my heart thrusting as our gazes clung a hint longer than perhaps appropriate. I swallowed, turning away as he added quietly, “’Night, Lorie.”

  I slept nearly immediately, though first I set out my soapstone bear for protection, near my head. It wasn’t until much later that I woke at the sound of quiet voices in the darkness; I lifted to one elbow to listen—Boyd, and Sawyer.

  “I’ll stay out, I don’t mind,” Sawyer murmured, as though offhandedly. My heart came awake and pulsed.

  There was a pause, as though Boyd was considering a response. I could hardly hear and crawled to the entrance on my scraped knees, keeping utterly silent. Finally Boyd whispered, “I ain’t blind, you know.”

  An edgy silence between them, while I pressed both hands to my suddenly jumping stomach.

  Sawyer whispered, and even in a whisper I could hear the way he attempted to sound casually offhand, “I know you aren’t.”

  Boyd gave a soft snort. He murmured, “I’ve knowed you my whole life, an’ I’ve watched girls makin’ eyes at you that entire time, getting your attention. But I’ve never seen you look at a woman the way you look at Lorie. Shit, I noticed it from the first.”

  Blood rushed through my head, almost obliterating any other sound. I leaned even closer, curling my fingers into the grass now, listening intently.

  Boyd went on in an intense whisper, “Lorie is a precious girl, no mistake, an’ she looks back at you the same way.”

  I blinked in stun; Boyd was far more observant than I would have guessed. Sawyer had not yet spoken and I listened desperately for any response from him at all. Boyd whispered, “Malcolm don’t see it, and Gus has stars in his eyes too. He won’t come right out an’ say it, but him an’ her…they…before we…you know…”

  I curled over in shame and horror, even though what Boyd stammered was entirely true. I cupped my forehead in both hands, not realizing that Sawyer was doing the same, just feet from me. His voice sounded agonized as he spoke at last, low, “I don’t care, Boyd, not about that.”

  “You just watch what you’re doing, old friend, wanting what you maybe shouldn’t have,” Boyd muttered, though not unkindly. “That’s a girl who’s been hurt a-plenty. She don’t need her heart broke, that’s what.”

  Silence for a time, into which my heart thundered painfully. At long last, Sawyer whispered, “I’m staying right here,” and Boyd sighed, and then I heard him stand up.

  “You’re nothin’ but stubborn, but at least I can count on that,” Boyd said as a good-night; I could hear the soft sounds of Malcolm snoring from their tent, just to the right of mine as always, as Boyd untied the flaps and retreated inside.

  I listened hard, yet on my knees, as S
awyer, perhaps two feet from me and unaware that I was so near, stretched out to sleep. I ascertained from the rustlings that he was bunching up a blanket and then he settled. I crawled silently to my bedding and retrieved my own pillow and blanket, then lay on the ground, as close to the entrance as I dared, resting my fingertips against the canvas closest to him, and listened to the sound of his breathing.

  - 15 -

  Early morning light, and Malcolm was at the entrance whispering, “Lorie, you awake?”

  I stirred and sat up quickly, but realized that Sawyer was no longer right outside my tent. My mind went instantly to the conversation I’d heard last night, between him and Boyd, and I reminded myself they did not realize I had eavesdropped.

  I’ve never seen you look at a woman they way you look at Lorie, Boyd had said.

  “I am now,” I whispered back, and then hurried to dress and rebraid my hair, finding Malcolm and Angus chatting at the fire.

  “Morning, you two,” I said. Catching a scent I had not smelled in ages, I marveled, “Is that mint?”

  “It is indeed,” Angus said. “Malcolm found a patch of it growing and we’ve made a tea.”

  “I’ll pour you some,” Malcolm offered.

  “I’ll have a cup as soon as I get back,” I said.

  As always, I walked a fair distance to assure privacy, though as I left the campsite behind, I realized that Sawyer and Boyd were already ahead of me; I could hear their murmured voices as I neared, and was about to turn back. I saw them then, as I came around a stand of rangy cottonwoods, taking turns shaving, standing near the center of the creek, the widest juncture, in slow-moving water that flowed gently around their hips; they worked as a team, one holding the small disk of a hand mirror while the other used a straight-edged razor to carefully scrape along his chin and jaw.

  Boyd was currently holding the mirror, while Sawyer was facing away from me. He was bare from the waist up, the long columns of muscle on his back shifting with the repetitive motion of his right arm. Muscle rippled over the tops of his wide shoulders, down his powerful arms. His long hair was wet, dripping down his spine from where he’d carelessly tied it at the back of his neck.

  Boyd had one of his tobacco rolls clamped between his lips, his hair also damp; of course he was chuckling about something as Sawyer shaved. I ducked further back, out of sight, and realized I hadn’t blinked. I knew I needed to walk away, but my feet had grown roots into the ground. I gripped the slim trunk of a cottonwood between both hands, the bark scraping my palms. Boyd had been right in his assessment last night; I had never looked at a man as I did at Sawyer.

  It wasn’t proper, I knew that, to the bottom of my heart. Propriety. As if I’d given a damn about it in years. It was something I had not been forced to consider when I spent my nights turning tricks and closing off my heart in order to survive. Crushing out the shame, the horror of what I did on a nightly basis, the hope or dream of something better to come. I imagined, in my blackest heart, that I would likely die at Ginny’s, if not by violence than perhaps by my own hand, when I could no longer bear the pain of what was expected of me.

  Sawyer had said he didn’t care about what had happened between Angus and me. Could he truly mean that, see beyond what I had been?

  Could I risk letting myself hope for such a thing?

  “Lorie!” I heard Malcolm call in the distance, and Sawyer started to turn at the sound of my name.

  I scrambled out of sight as quickly as I could, back up the creek bank, to our camp. I still hadn’t found a moment’s privacy. Angus and Malcolm were frying the last of the bacon the Spicers had given us, and I accepted a plate and a cup of tea from Angus.

  “We did a good job with your hair,” I said to Malcolm, who was not smiling in his usual fashion.

  “You’ve a steady hand,” Angus agreed. “Lorie, were you wanting to ride today?”

  I nodded, my mouth full of tea. The taste of mint brought to mind Mama’s herb garden; she would bring armloads of it into the house to scent the air, as it grew like a weed. I resolved to ask Malcolm where he’d picked this bunch.

  “Boyd can take the wagon for a spell,” Malcolm decided. “Or Sawyer, he ain’t had a turn in so long. Always it’s me, the littlest, since everyone can boss me.”

  He sounded so contrary and out of sorts that I nearly smiled. Maybe the weather was affecting his mood, as it was looking to be a gray and wind-swept day. The water rippled silver.

  Angus was watching Malcolm with a speculative expression; after a moment he said, “Son, there’s no reason we can’t let Juniper pull the wagon alone for today. Mind you, just the day. But then you can ride, and let someone else drive the wagon a spell.”

  I regarded Angus as I sipped my tea; he was so patient with Malcolm, always kind to the boy.

  Malcolm’s eyes brightened a little and he asked, “Really? Might we ride ahead a bit, Gus? Look for them buffalo critters, maybe?”

  Angus smiled indulgently and nodded.

  I felt compelled to add, “Gus, I certainly don’t have to ride today.”

  “No, you’ve enjoyed yourself so well,” Angus said.

  “It is wonderful to ride,” I told him, more determined than ever to continue pulling my share of the responsibilities; with that in mind, I finished eating and was stripping the dry clothes from the line when I saw Sawyer and Boyd returning. I ducked my face away, pretending to be preoccupied, though Boyd called good morning.

  Sawyer came straight to me; I saw him approaching from the corner of my eye and tried to keep breathing normally, recalling how I’d fallen asleep listening to his breathing last night, comforted by it just outside my tent. I had meant to stay awake long enough to untie the lacings and look upon him as he slept. In my imaginings, I envisioned touching his face, just lightly, tracing my fingers along the angles of it, over the scar on his right jaw. Someone had slashed him there, no doubt in the War, trying to kill him. Just the thought of anyone hurting him made me ill and my eyes flashed to his in desperation, as though to make certain he was still there, unharmed.

  He was, and he was smiling at me, freshly shaved, his hair damp and his eyes so very warm in the chilly grayness of the morning.

  “Good morning,” I said softly, my hands stalling completely, poised to remove the clothes pin from a pair of Malcolm’s trousers.

  I slept outside of your tent, Lorie, I watched over you, his eyes told me clearly.

  I know, oh I know. I lay there beside you, as close as I could get to you, I told him back.

  “Morning,” he replied, and he nodded at the clothes over my shoulder; we hadn’t a laundry basket, so I had been draping them there. “Here, let me.”

  He gathered everything in his arms and we worked together to unpin the rest of them, close though not touching, warmed thoroughly through at just the proximity of our bodies.

  “Thank you,” I told him.

  “Of course,” he said, as though surprised that I shouldn’t just expect his help.

  I handed him one of my petticoats.

  “I’ll take the wagon, if you’ve a mind to ride again,” he told me, watching me as we worked.

  I felt a flush that started in my cheeks and moved rapidly southward along my skin. I heard myself say, “I may take her for a run, though. I can’t promise.”

  He smiled at that and replied, “Then no deal.”

  “Lorie, hurry along! I need your help!” Malcolm called from the tents.

  “I’ll be there!” I called back, dropping the last two of the clothes pins into the towel I’d knotted around my waist for the purpose, making a pocket that now bulged with pins.

  Sawyer followed me bearing the armload of clothes, and Malcolm gave him a funny look, asking, “Since when do you help with laundry?”

  “Since now, kid,” he replied, and then handed the b
undle to Malcolm with a grin. “Here, you put these away.”

  “Because I’m the littlest,” Malcolm grumbled again, glaring at us with his dark eyes cantankerous, eyebrows pulled low.

  “You look just like your daddy when you make that face,” Sawyer observed, as Malcolm’s scowl became even more pronounced. “Bainbridge Carter could throw a scare into a boy faster than about anything.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Boyd added, ducking out of his tent and snatching a shirt from the clean clothes. “An’ he was a heavy hand with a strap, too.”

  “Were you strapped often?” I asked him, taking my own clothes from Malcolm’s arms.

  “Nah, only once a day or so. An’ that was just Mama,” Boyd joked, disappearing again.

  “Come, let’s get these tents stored away,” Angus said, coming from the wagon. “Rain again, no doubt.”

  We pulled out within a half hour, under a stormy sky. I was content though, dressed in my riding clothes and atop Whistler. Malcolm, whose usual good humor had been partially restored at being free to ride Aces, trotted him to me and observed, “You look right nice on a horse, Lorie-Lorie. Most ladies look silly, ’specially at a trot. Ladies look right bouncy and uncomfortable, but not you.”

  “Thank you,” I told him, grinning. “I rode often as a girl. I love it so.”

  “Whistler-girl,” he crooned to her then. “You wanna race, huh, girl? You wanna race me an’ Aces?”

  She nickered at Malcolm, ears twitching, and I was certain that meant yes.

  “Let’s ride!” Angus called then, as he always did, and Sawyer flicked the lead lines over Juniper.

  “Helping with laundry an’ driving the wagon,” Malcolm mused, squinting one eye at Sawyer. “What’s wrong with him these days, huh, Lorie?”

  Since we were behind the wagon and my eyes were neatly hidden in the shadow of my hat brim, I felt comfortable to study Sawyer freely. He sat just as straight there as upon a horse, his hat in place. I was wearing Sawyer’s leather riding gloves this morning, as Malcolm needed his own, and I couldn’t stop thinking that this very same leather had been shaped to the exact contours of his strong hands, his long fingers. I curled my fingers delightedly, caressing the leather that normally encased his hands. I put my right hand unobtrusively to my lips and kissed the palm of the glove.