Heart of a Dove

by Abbie Williams

  I clung to him, absorbing the story of his heritage, the gift of him.

  Oh God, please let me bleed soon. Oh please, dear Lord…

  “Lorie, ” he whispered. “I’m here, and I won’t let you go.”

  I wanted so badly to believe him. I trusted him with all of my heart. But I’d lived long enough to distrust this life.

  I whispered, “My Sawyer, my woodcutter. Thank you for telling me their story.”

  “That’s only the beginning,” he said, and there was soft humor in his eyes again. “Granddaddy was a talker. No winter evening would pass without one of his stories. Now come, mo mhuirnín mhilis, it will be dawn in but moments.”

  We hurried, spurred on by the lightening sky. The horses whickered and stomped as we passed, and Sawyer caught me close for one last kiss, a sweet, soft kiss, before we came into sight of the camp. No one was stirring, and he kissed my hands, one after the other, before I ducked into my tent and collapsed atop my bedding.

  - 18 -

  I woke no more than two hours later and immediately Sawyer’s words came rushing into my mind, my heart, filling me to bursting. I curled to one side and folded my hands against my heart, stretching out with my senses, trying to determine if he was yet awake. He was, out near Whistler, and I could think of nothing but getting to him. My hair flowed loose over my shoulders as I buttoned into a skirt and wrapped within my shawl, then hurried to untie the laces. A fire was crackling and I could hear Malcolm in his tent, but encountered no one else as I ran out towards the horses. The sun was an inch above the horizon, golden and calm as a benediction upon the prairie. I was breathless, shivering with anticipation, as I came upon the horses grazing. And there was Sawyer, rubbing Whistler’s neck with his strong hands.

  His hair was as golden as the sunlight and hanging to his shoulder blades. It had just the slightest natural ripple and I recalled the pleasure of stroking my fingers through its length. It was so much a part of him that I could not imagine him with shorter hair. Whistler shone in the sunlight, her beautiful hide gleaming as she nuzzled his chest with affection. His horse, birthed into his arms; she had carried him to the War and become the sole reason he continued willing himself to live, after. I loved her for all of those things. Somehow I knew Whistler had done all she could to keep him safe.

  Sawyer turned to find me studying him in the sun, and he smiled with such love that I flew into his arms, again startling the horses as he lifted me close. I slid my arms joyfully around his neck, hugging him and holding him.

  Against my hair he murmured, “Good morning.”

  I kissed his scratchy, unshaven jaw, murmuring back, “Good morning. I knew you’d be out here.”

  He rocked me side to side and said, “You feel so small and slim. Fan anseo i mo lámha.”

  I smiled and shivered at the melodic Irish. I whispered back, “And what does that mean?”

  Against my ear he translated, “Stay here in my arms.”

  I clung even more tightly, saying, “I wish so for that. Would that I could spend the day in your arms.”

  He nuzzled my neck with soft, slow kisses. I closed my eyes and tipped my head to give him better access, shivering as his stubble rasped against the sensitive skin there.

  “Don’t stop, Sawyer,” I begged him in a whisper, tightening my arms. “Please, don’t stop.”

  He groaned against my skin and whispered, “Don’t tempt me. It takes about everything I have to stop touching you, every time.”

  I ran my hands over the ridges of muscle along the tops of his shoulders, hard as stone but so warm under my palms, as he tasted my neck until I moaned against him. He shivered and brought my mouth to his with such skill, such need, kissing me deeply and absolutely, rendering me weak and near senseless with longing. Both of us neglecting to consider that anyone could happen upon us.

  “You are so incredibly beautiful,” he said, his voice low and hoarse with emotion as he held me to his chest, my feet above the ground. “You don’t know how my heart feels to look at you, to hold you in my arms.”

  “Sawyer,” I said, trembling, cupping his face in my hands. His eyes were intense upon me. I told him, “I do know. When you look at me…when you touch me…when I even think of you touching me…everything inside of me leaps towards you.” I punctuated my words with kisses, unable to stop. He caught my chin in his mouth and suckled it gently, then ran his tongue over my throat to my earlobe, taking it between his teeth. Skeins of heated pleasure flowed along my skin wherever his lips, his tongue touched me. I tasted of him too, his neck and again his mouth. He breathed out in a rush, burying his face against me and holding me so close, surely nothing could ever force us apart.

  The horses no doubt wondered what kept us so enraptured with one another; Whistler chose that moment to nudge her nose into our sides with a whooshing breath and I laughed, as Sawyer gently elbowed her away.

  “Lorie!” Malcolm called, from the direction of the tents.

  “Later,” Sawyer promised me, kissing me once more before letting my feet back to the earth. He noticed my bare feet and said, “Sweetheart, you’ll step on a rock, or something sharp.” His eyes grew more concerned. “There’s snakes where you can’t always spy them. You fall into rivers when I’m not near. I worry so, Lorie, you mean more to me than anything in the world.”

  My heart beat fiercely in response. I told him, “You must promise me the same. When you’re out of my sight I can’t rest until I see you again, riding towards me on Whistler.”

  One last kiss before we tore apart.

  “Ride on the wagon with me today,” I implored.

  He grinned in the effortless way that made me quiver with happiness. He said, rubbing Whistler’s nose, “Wild horses, even this wild horse, couldn’t stop me.”

  If anyone other than Boyd wondered why Sawyer again let Malcolm ride Whistler, it wasn’t apparent. Although I sensed a new wariness in Sawyer as he regarded Angus by the early day’s light. I hated that we harbored such a secret, the knowledge of such potential devastation. Far worse than that, I knew that Sawyer loved Angus, very much. I knew he had no wish to hurt him.

  The three of them, Boyd and Gus and Malcolm, rode abreast for a time, until Malcolm called back in a wheedling tone, “Mightn’t we race a bit, Sawyer, please?”

  I was seated to Sawyer’s left, a goodly distance between us, though we’d been stealing long looks, our eyes speaking as much as our words.

  “Of course, kid,” he called to Malcolm. “If Fortune or Admiral feel they have it in them to beat my horse.”

  Boyd turned lazily to regard us, shaking his head. He called back, “That’s tough words from a man on a wagon seat.”

  Angus lifted his hat and resettled it, adding, “I’d say young Malcolm has the advantage in this case.”

  Malcolm cried, “C’mon, boys, let’s have a run! We don’t care if we beat your pants off, do we, Whistler-girl?”

  Boyd heeled Fortune as though to set her into a trot, but then looked back at his brother with a grin. Malcolm caught his intent and whooped, leaning into Whistler as Boyd kicked Fortune into a canter. Gus looked back at us and told Sawyer wryly, “I’ve you to blame for this,” before following after them.

  The moment their backs were turned and disappearing into the distance, we were in each other’s arms, the reins falling from Sawyer’s hands as he caught me close and I all but fell over his lap in an attempt to be closer to him. My hat dropped behind us and into the wagon bed. We were fortunate that Juniper and Aces were both relatively well-behaved and continued plodding forward as we kissed and curled around one another, murmuring wordless sounds of love and longing. When the reins slipped enough to be in danger of falling beneath the wagon, we drew apart and Sawyer took them back into his hands. He laughed as he collected them, saying, “Good thing these two aren’t known to bolt.”r />
  He arranged us so that I was tucked against his side, just as yesterday, and I snuggled against him, smoothing my fingers along his arm closest to me, bared by the rolled sleeve of his shirt. His forearms were long and lean, corded with muscle, lightly dusted with dark-blond hair. I imagined that similar hair covered his legs. I traced my fingertips over it, skimming along his warm skin as he shivered and ran the tip of his tongue in a teasing line over my temple, then kissed the same spot. I remained fascinated by everything about him, the way his wrists were held taut, his capable hands around the leather straps.

  “Tell me a story about you,” I implored him softly, for this moment utterly content, blocking everything else from my mind.

  He kissed me again, squeezing me close with his arm. He said, “I loved Christmas as a boy. Mama and Granny Alice would spend the week before making mince pies and apple pies, and Mama would use the bayberry candles. Just in December, otherwise we used the plain beeswax. But in December she lit the ones scented with bayberry. Just that scent reminds me of Christmastide, even still.” His voice took on the quality of remembrance, soft and deep. “Mama would hang the mistletoe and Daddy would always catch her there.”

  “What did your daddy look like?” I asked, swept away into his story. I imagined James Davis looking much like Sawyer.

  “Tall and strong, in my memory I am always looking up to see him. He was fair, and Granddaddy too, though he and Granddaddy were both bearded. I was, as a soldier. Can’t say I relish the look now. Mama was always making him laugh about something. Oh, they’d fight now and again, as Mama was hot-tempered. Once she took after him with a wooden spoon.” He laughed at the memory, a half-pained laugh that spoke of the sweetness of times past intermingled with the extremity of the loss. I moved my hands from his arm and slid them around his waist, resting my head upon his shoulder.

  “What color were his eyes?” I asked, my voice soft, caught up in his words; I tried to imagine Sawyer with a full beard, as a soldier.

  “Like mine,” he replied softly. “Sometimes when I see my reflection, I see my daddy looking back. I pray I am half the man he was. Lorie, he cared for us so well. I always knew I was loved, even when I misbehaved.”

  “So few people know such love,” I whispered.

  “You did, with your family, I can tell,” he said gently.

  I nodded, a sudden jagged-edged lump in my throat. But I had no wish to cry.

  He said, “If I could take away all of your pain I would, Lorie, no matter what it cost me.”

  His words went straight to my heart. I shook my head, too choked with tears to answer. Instead I clung and he held me tightly. The sun was past noon, the air hot and windless, the grass whispering around us, insects buzzing and whirring. I gulped and he freed his right hand from the reins and smoothed it over my hair.

  “Sawyer,” I whispered at last. “No, love, don’t say that. I wouldn’t let you take on more hurt.”

  “I would in a heartbeat,” he insisted. “There is so much that pains you, so much that you’ve been through. And here I sit so happy that you just called me ‘love.’” There was such a note of wonder in his tone.

  I smiled a little; the endearment had rolled off my tongue without a thought. He was my love in a way that I could never even begin to explain in words. The knowledge of it was beyond words, beyond articulation. I asked, “How would I say that in Irish? Teach me.”

  He replied softly, “Mo ghrá. My love.”

  I tried my hand at the syllables, which he had spoken low in his throat. “Sawyer, mo ghrá.”

  He cuddled me closer and whispered back, “Lorie, mo ghrá.”

  “I cherish everything you told me last night,” I said, shifting to see his face. “Thank you for that, for understanding what I told you. Sawyer, I know you told me not to worry, but I cannot help it.”

  He enfolded my left hand into his, protectively. Studying my eyes steadfastly he said, “I won’t claim to be able to predict the future, but I know a couple of things for certain. First, you have my heart, Lorie Blake. Second, I mean to make you my wife.” The gold in his eyes glinted softly as his words filled me with quiet, overpowering joy. He said, “You are for me, and I belong to you. And that’s the way of it.”

  “Oh, Sawyer,” I whispered, my throat swollen with emotion.

  He hooked the reins over his right thigh and then used his free hand to caress my face. His thumb lingered on my bottom lip, which he traced before leaning to kiss me softly. He whispered against my lips, teasing me a little, “If you’ll have me, that is.”

  I whispered back, “You know I will. I can’t imagine not having you, Sawyer, now that I’ve found you.”

  “Come here, let me hold you,” he said, cradling me tightly against his side. “I spend the entire night longing to find an excuse to hold you in the daylight, any little excuse at all. I don’t mean to lose any precious time.”

  I wrapped my arms around him, letting myself accept this gift, and we rode in silence for a few minutes. After a spell I said softly, “Last night you told me you once started to believe that existence meant nothing. I believed that for a long time, too. When I lived with Ginny…she made me change my name.”

  “Is that what that bastard called you?” Sawyer asked. “Lila?”

  I cringed instinctively at the remembrance of that name.

  Sawyer said at once, “I will never speak it again, not ever. I could see what it did to you when he said such.” As though to himself, he muttered, “I should have killed him. I knew I should have.”

  “Sawyer,” I admonished. “He wouldn’t have known I had a real name as it is.”

  “Even still,” he said, and curled me closer.

  “I just…” I trailed into silence, trying to determine how to best express my thoughts.

  “Just what, sweetheart?” Sawyer asked.

  “I never thought…I never imagined that I would be free of that place,” I said at last, and my eyes roamed out over the prairie, baking under the sun, a seemingly empty expanse, though I knew it teemed with life. I went on, “I figured I would die there eventually. Sawyer, I despise that it was always be a part of me, the person I had to be in order to survive there. I despised what I was forced to do.” The words were spilling forth like water over the side of a cliff. “And you are able to accept me, to see beyond that. I still almost cannot fathom it.”

  “Lorie,” he said intently. “Never worry over such, promise me.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said. “But being there, the pain I suffered, taught me something too. If I hadn’t been at Ginny’s that night, if I hadn’t seen the three of you…”

  “We were meant to be there. I can see just how you looked on those stairs. And that despicable woman…what she said to you…”

  At first I couldn’t recall, but then Ginny’s words scissored back into my mind. My nipples, that she’d cut them off. Likely that had not been an empty threat. I shuddered at the memory. I said, “She was terrible. She…”

  “Tell me,” he said softly. “Tell me, so that you may put it away from you forever.”

  I imagined Deirdre, held her in my mind. At last I whispered, “I had one friend there. From the first day I lived at Ginny’s, she cared about me. After…” my vision clouded at the memories I did my best to keep coiled under rocks and nailed down beneath boards within my mind. But Sawyer’s arms around me, his compassion, gave me the strength to continue. I said, “After my first night, she came to me in the dawn and held me in her arms so that…I would stop shaking. For the first month I lived there, she held me sometimes, and I pretended that she was my mother, maybe a sister…”

  “Lorie,” he said painfully. “You were so young, sweetheart.”

  I didn’t want him to pity me because of what I told him. I wanted him to know, because it was a part of me, albeit a da
rk and twisted one. Words I had never spoken to anyone burst forth.

  “Deirdre kept me from taking my own life, which I would have done, but for her, and the notion that surely I would die and go to hell if I killed myself. But I thought of it, often. You can’t know how it feels to be free of that, out here on the prairie, living again, no longer a prisoner there.”

  “I understand, I truly do. I spent a good deal of time wishing to die myself,” Sawyer told me, and I hugged him harder at those words. He asked quietly, “What of your friend? Is she yet there?”

  “She died,” I whispered. “A year ago she was caught. She had stopped bleeding every month. She was terrified to tell Ginny, terrified to go to the doctor. We knew of a woman who lived on the docks who sold a tea…to bring on the child…”

  “What happened?” he whispered, his lips against the side of my forehead.

  “I meant to help her, Sawyer, I would have done anything to save her. I loved her. The night after she told me, I snuck from Ginny’s, to the docks in St. Louis, and I found the old woman, I bought the tea.” My heart stuttered but I kept talking, “And then…it was dark, getting to late evening…and someone caught my arm. It was him…Sam Rainey…”

  “The man who cut you?” Sawyer’s voice was both shocked and full of venom; I knew that if Sam Rainey was unfortunate enough to be near us in this moment, Sawyer would make him regret it. The thought brought me a certain amount of comfort.

  I nodded. “He threatened me and I fear…I know he would have done far worse, but for the fact that he wasn’t alone. Union Jack was with him, and I got away that night, but only because Sam let me. He said…he said I couldn’t escape him forever.” I shuddered again, though the day was hot.

  “You are a brave woman. Mark my words,” Sawyer told me. “I hope you know it.”

  “It doesn’t seem so to me,” I said, though I did appreciate his words, sincerely spoken. “But worse, far worse…was the next day. I brought back the tea and we brewed it, and Deirdre drank it…it was to bring on the child. She…oh God, Sawyer, it killed her. She bled and bled, and grew fevered.”